Some Nights
by Rmorris27
Summary: Sherlock is almost finished destroying Moriarty's web but needs some help from the youngest member of the Holmes family before he can return to London- and more importantly- to a certain Ex-Army Doctor. Case/Reunion/Johnlock/Angst/Fluff/other-Holmes-family-member multi-chapter story.
1. Chapter 1

**So I published this a few weeks back, then found a ton of mistakes so I fixed it and just decided to re-publish the whole thing.**

Don't be mean, it's my first attempt at fanfiction, and at writing in this style, constructive criticism is welcome.

I don't own Sherlock, or the characters (other than Rebecca), or the story, or anything else.

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"_Some nights I wish that this all would end,_

_cause I could use some friends for a change,_

_and some nights I'm scared you'll forget me again,_

_Some nights I always win."_

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Chapter One

"Arriving in Dundee station" announced the automated voice as the sleepy city crept into view. The lights from the buildings reflected onto the water making the impossibly empty carriage somehow feel even more lonely. A man sitting in the third row unwrapped himself from a blanket and stood to collect his bag, the underfed muscles in his arms screaming with every tiny movement. His body- a body that was so use to being neglected- was past the point of exhaustion, his mind wasn't far behind either.

The train stopped and the doors opened, letting in a rush of freezing air . The station wasn't big, certainly not big enough for the growing city, but seeing as it was 1:30am, the tracks and platforms were baron; all traces of human life laying dormant until morning. A short, agonizing walk later a sigh escaped his lips as the heat of indoors wrapped itself around his body trying to help the shadow of a man warm up.

Usually places like train stations proved a bit overwhelming to the sharpness of his mind: there were too many things to look at, to analyse, to deduce, hence his obsession with taxi's- but tonight his eyes could only muster enough energy to look in the direction of a form that was slowly making its way towards him.

As she moved closer his weary brain jumped into it's old habits;_5'5, light hazel eyes (more brown than green), freckles covering most of her face but mainly nose area(permanent, not the result of sun exposure), brown/red hair, features similar to his own(well shaped lips, hair, slightly curled, very pale skin)- she was 18 years and 26 days old, 110 lbs approx._

Before he could control it, his brain jumped to analyse her clothing:_long dark navy coat(six shiny buttons, wool blend), large bag over her arm(too large for the time of day, obviously not returned home all day), scarf and gloves (brown powder on one, coffee powder- highly addicted to caffeine, confirmed by the slight shake to her hands)._

Unsurprisingly her mind was doing the same thing to the man that she was approaching:_6' exactly, raven hair, one small freckle on right side of neck two smaller on the left side, familiar features to her own (lips, hair, skin tone). Clean (stopped off before arriving). Small bag (travelling lightly). Wide pupils, shaking hands (caffeine tablets/coffee- small brown stain on left corner of mouth- coffee, black two sugars). Clothing clean, shoes dirty, (raining in last stop). Coat on top of bag, along with scarf (_he still has that scarf?! _) not being worn despite cold- worried about being recognised._

Both of their deductions stopped when they reached each other.

"Oh, Sherlock" she whispered, reaching one gloved hand up to touch his face. He flinched back from her touch- it'd been months since he'd been touched by someone who wasn't intending to harm him- before leaning into the softness of the material _(woollen, store bought, oasis, 2009 winter collection)_. Her eyes were glistening as she looked up at him. She'd expected him to look bad, but not this bad. Never this bad.

The detectives once beautiful face was sunken due to weight loss, covered in healing cuts and badly covered bruises, his bright, cutting, grey eyes were dull and life less.

The old Sherlock Holmes was not there any more.

"Hello Rebecca". He managed a small smile, but it shook, his face just hurt so badly-_he _just hurt _so _badly. She wrapped her small arms around his waist-_Christ he was thin_- and squeezed. Sherlock's eyes slid shut as she held on to him. Although he rarely touched people, he'd missed human contact. If his body had the strength, frail arms would have lifted and wrapped around her too, but he just...just couldn't get them to move without winching.

"C'mon" she said picking up his bag and taking his hand, "we're taking you home".

From that point everything blurred: the elevator up to the exit, the taxi ride, the next elevator up to her apartment, being led to a bed, being tucked in. He did, however, feel a small pair of lips kiss his head before the door clicked closed and sleep finally overtook.

Rebecca wasn't one for emotion (none of the Holmes family were) but seeing Sherlock like that was too much. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, her big cousin, _her idol_, reduced to a twitching mass of bones and skin before her eyes. It wasn't right.

She knew what he'd been doing for the past year and a half and had agreed to help him finish the job. Scotland was the last known sighting of Moriarty's top man, the last on Sherlock's expansive list, and so to Scotland Sherlock had come. She pulled in a shaky breath, ruffled her hair with both hands and walked through to the kitchen, resuming her place behind the microscope that was placed on the table: back straight, mind focused.

For around a month she'd been looking at the effects of different poisons on human cells but decided that subtlety wasn't really a problem seeing as Mycroft could get rid of anything with a raise of his eyebrow. Sadly (_or not, _she thought), Mycroft could get anything he desired by looking to the right person, be it a few criminal charges dropped, or a raspberry scone and tea. Her mouth twitched up at the thought. Even when she was under the care of the Holmes brothers as a child, Mycroft loved sweets and had always been significantly more weighted than his little brother, something that had bothered him to no end.

The diet was going well though, he'd told her, "almost a stone lost in the past few months" he'd said happily. But, before being able to continue telling her of his great weight loss journey he'd hung up after being asked if a certain Detective inspector had noticed. By hanging up, she had deduced while a Holmes-style grin spread across her face, he hadn't.

Her train of thought was interrupted by a loud, terrified cry from down the hall. Not bothering to think before acting Rebecca stood and ran towards Sherlock, a thousand possibilities going through her mind as she threw the door open. She'd expected a gang of thugs, or a wild animal, or another crazed Arab trying to behead Sherlock (she really must apologise for that, she didn't think they _would actually _hunt her family down after the mess she'd left them, apparently they were serious with that threat) but instead she was met by a much worse sight.

Sherlock was lying on his side, knees pulled up to his chest covered in sweat. He was apparently trying to fight off demons that were attacking him from inside his own brilliant mind. She walked towards the bed and began going through the same actions she would any other time Sherlock would have nightmares. Being a Holmes, she wasn't much for touching and feelings but Sherlock was different. He was _her _Sherlock, and he needed her. Steeling herself for the worst, her feet began to take her towards her broken hero.

"Sher," she whispered as she sat down on the bed. He just looked so small, so _not Sherlock _that it caused her physical pain. He quieted a little at the sound of her voice and so she reached out and pushed his hair from his forehead.

"Hey, you're okay. I've got you, you're safe here" she soothed, still pushing hair out of the way softy while analysing his head (_dark, no grey despite current stress. Thick and curled like her own. Three bumps near the back, a cut in the front. Not dirty, washed recently in France_). He was mumbling something- a word beginning with J, but before he said the full thing his eyes flew open. Thankfully, she was prepared for his violent reaction, (and with his current weight she would easily get the best of him if he did attack) and pinned his arms at either side of his head before he could do anything stupid.

"It's okay Sher,"she said in her firmest voice. His eyes were scanning the room and his breath was coming in sharp drags so she held him there for a few minutes repeating the location-"clock tower, Dundee waterfront, top floor,"-until his mind confirmed that he was, in fact, safe with Rebecca in Scotland.

_Safe, _he thought_._

_Safe._

The tears began to flow before they could be stopped. Usually he would be mortified and mentally beat himself up over being a slave to something so human, but he was just so very tired and so very lonely and so, so, so thankful that Rebecca was there. His favourite person on the planet (well, one of two but he couldn't go there. Not yet.) holding him and whispering soft words into his ears while cradling his head.

Sherlock's eyes slid closed again after they had run out of tears. He was pulled back against a warm chest a beating heart under his ear, safe and solid and _real _when everything went the best kind of black.

Rebecca didn't sleep- a bad habit she'd picked up from Sherlock in her younger days- instead she continued to play with his hair and catalogue his injuries; _malnourished (weight loss more than 1 stone). Broken ribs that hadn't been set properly obvious due to the crooked way he now walked. Possible chest infection. Three concussions. Broken arm, sustained around three weeks ago._

The first of many scars caught her eye causing her chest to seize up. He was covered in them, large and small, healed and fresh all marking his otherwise perfect skin. He was fidgeting in his sleep so she loosened her grip to allow Sherlock to get more comfortable in her arms. Trust Sherlock to attempt this whole mission on his own- the man was so damn stubborn sometimes that it almost killed him. If he'd have asked she wouldn't have hesitated to drop everything and go follow the crazed Detective as he hunted down Moriarty's men, but the situation was only brought to light by Mycroft after Sherlock had had a nasty run in with a gang in Finland, and upon finishing there was too physically drained to do the rest alone.

The dreams must be bad because again, Sherlock twisted in her arms and winced before wrapping his long fingers around her own, _both so bloody pale,_ she thought. He shifted again and a bandage appeared from beneath his purple shirt. It covered his entire abdomen and made the youngest Holmes' heart stop. She pressed her fingers lightly to the area- warm blood appeared on her hand.

"Shit!" she flew from the bed and ran to get the medical kit she'd been building up over the past few weeks. How the hospital staff hadn't noticed this stuff going missing she didn't know, but then again, do other people notice _anything? _She silently thanked the ignorant minds of the staff and began to rummage through the kitchen- setting the kettle to boil, getting bowls to hold the waste, getting blood and medicine from the fridge- before sprinting back into the bedroom.

One thing about Sherlock Holmes is that he isn't a big advocate of basic human actions, sleep ranked even lower than eating on his priority list and so the fact that he appeared un-wake-able was very worrying to say the least. She pressed at his face and arms trying to pull him back into reality. He didn't even move.

"No, no, no, no" she muttered between laboured breaths as she shook his bony shoulders a little harder than necessary.

"Sher. C'mon Sher-Sher". Amongst a few escaped tears, a smile spread across her face when she used his old nickname- usually he turned his death glare on anyone who referred to him as anything other than Sherlock, but he'd always smiled when she called him that.

The shaking was proving useless and probably wasn't helping his concussed brain much, so she switched tactics. _Most people wake when they experience pain_, she thought, _a light sleeper like he was simply had to_. She stood and found an IV line that she'd swiped earlier after being given a heads up from Mycroft about his brothers condition. A small apology passed her lips as she located a vein in his arm and fixed the line there with some tape.

"Thank the lord" Rebecca sighed, letting out a breath she hadn't been aware she'd been holding. Sherlock had opened his eyes and locked them with his cousins.

"I was enjoying that sleep" a somewhat weak, but familiar voice rumbled. Her lips curled up at the corners as she fished a suture kit out of the small medical mountain at the side of her bed.

"Well, I didn't. You-just- just _no _Sher", she said avoiding his gaze as she slowly unbuttoned his shirt making no mention of the numerous blood stains.

"This," she motioned to the bandages, "you didn't tell me about this".

"I am disappointed you didn't notice it," he said in his usual dismissive tone. The corners of his mouth twitched, "has my apprentice lost some of her skills?"

This wasn't the time for joking. He was lying, _bleeding _might she add, on her bed.

"Oh, sorry. I wasn't aware that I was meant to be superhuman. I can deduce what I see, I couldn't see that because of your bloody shirt and suit jacket- no pun intended". She was angry, it saturated every word that passed through her clenched teeth. He chuckled but stopped quickly and drew in a pained breath.

"This needs cleaned and stitched. You've not done a very good job with the whole medical thing, I'd have thought that living with Dr. Wa-" she was cut off before she cold say his name.

"_Don't_." A strange look flitted across his feature, one that she never thought she would see, a strange mix of warning and anger but mostly pain, and was that..._longing?_

A hush came over the room as she pushed Sherlock's shirt off and threw it over her shoulder. His ribs were bruised and visible, red marks and white scar tissue drew maps of his journey across his skin before hiding themselves behind the bandages that wrapped around his middle. Rebecca took lungfuls of air as she cut through the material. For all she knew the wound could have pierced something, bit of his insides could be falling out, infection may have set in-

"I can assure you that it's clean. Nothing was damaged by the knife." Sherlock's eyes were squeezed shut as he spoke to her, clearly trying to keep his mind off of the inevitable pain that he was about to endure. "I didn't stitch it because I would have passed out and I needed to keep moving" he explained. This seemed to prompt him to talk as he slowly launching into a minute by minute account of the last months, beginning with his escape from London with help from Molly after crossing off a few names on his list. He didn't mention his friend, or that before departing he went and watched the Doctor visit his grave (Mrs. Hudson had let it slip in one of her letters. Lovely woman, truly the mother figure that Sherlock needed and without a doubt one of the most patient people on the planet).

The stories were bloody and more than anything, lonely. Sherlock told them in a distant, quick voice, it was almost as if he didn't want to be telling them. She listened to every word, only contributing the occasional sigh or grunt to let him know she was still listening as she methodically analysed the blood soaked area. The wound was clean, _he has actually cleaned it up well_, Rebecca thought as she placed a towel under Sherlock's side and was getting ready to start stitching.

"It doesn't require stitches". Rebecca looked up and met the detectives eyes. Luckily, she was one of the few people that wasn't intimidated by his death glare.

"Of course it does. It's not that deep, but seeing as your body isn't up to much, stitches will help it heal. So, Mr. Holmes, sit down and _weesht_,". He didn't argue, simply pouted in defeat and closed his eyes thinking about how her accent was stronger than he remembered, but still nowhere near as strong as most other Scottish people he'd met.

"Don't happen to have anything in the way of pain relief do you?" he whined as she pinched at the skin and began stitching.

"For a normal person? yes. Pretty much anything you could ever want. For you, a reformed addict, no." Her voice became firmer as she spoke of his past. No one really understood that the drugs simply relieved boredom and that he wasn't addicted -really- as he proved when he gave them up in order to help Lestrade on a regular basis. _Good god, _he thought, _how long has it been since I've had a case?_

He hit a mental wall when he began thinking of cases because the majority of them involved a certain ex-army Doctor. Said, Doctor, for the time being, was held in his own bedroom in Sherlock's Mind Palace (he had re-arranged and cleared it out on the train leaving London- now it was structured and decorated like 221B) in order for the detective to be able to think clearly about the matters in hand. Certain things breached the wall for fleeting moments- seeing knitted oatmeal jumpers, walking past people that matched up to the exact spot that the doctor would have should he have been standing next to him. The simple things that reminded him of the Doctor caused the most pain, a simple cup of tea would often leave him replaying memories until he was numb all over. The smell of the antiseptic that Rebecca was applying over the newly closed wound had pulled Sherlock into a haze of past times were he'd needed patching up after chases and a pair of rough, but gentle hands would be there taking care of it before he even had to ask.

"Hello?" Rebecca's voice broke through his thoughts.

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked, squinting up at her. She was standing with her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. A quick stab of something rushed through him as he thought of how he had often seen that exact pose on someone else.

"I said do you want me to stay or will you be okay alone?". Her features had softened from the irritated frown they had just been set in as she watched Sherlock deliberate for a moment before looking up to her eyes then flicking them to the empty space next to him. He bit at his lip waiting for her answer. Rebecca smiled and uncrossed her arms. "Okay," she said, "I'll just go fix all of this then I'll be back". He watched as she packed the medical equipment back into its case and lifted it over one shoulder. A few minutes later she returned in her pyjamas,( blue striped bottoms-_Three years old, cotton, womens size 8, too big around waist, resized on the 1__st__ of June- _paired with one of his old grey t-shirts) and helped Sherlock under the covers before turning the light off. She sifted until Sherlock was positioned comfortably in her arms on his good side. A soft pair of lips gently touched his head and small hands began to run through his hair.

"Goodnight, Sher", she whispered against his curls. He was asleep before he could give a reply.


	2. Chapter 2

I never expected to get so many views! Thank you all for reading. Reviews and comments are welcome!

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**Chapter Two**

Sherlock slept soundly for the rest of the night only mumbling occasionally. Whatever he was trying to say, he never made it past the first letter, always stopping at the "J" then rearranging himself in the sheets.

Morning light broke through the curtains casting a soft, orange glow over the room. Sherlock rolled over, away from the younger Holmes and covered his ears with the sheets when a _'ping'_ sounded from the kitchen told Rebecca that coffee was ready. She stood, grabbing her thin, red dressing gown and padding across the flat. Picking up her cup and filling it, she added one sugar, and made her way out to the balcony.

The apartment building was on the waterfront right in the city centre, the River Tay glittered more and more as the sun climbed higher in the sky, while Dundee slowly wok up and came back to life. She loved watching cities wake up. Loved the way that the streets slowly became busier as shops opened and buses made their first rounds, how the cold air smelt of coffee and nipped at her face. A few cars left the car park, one taxi appeared and picked up the couple from the second floor to take them to the airport judging by the look of her shoelaces. In the distance the first siren of an ambulance could be heard, it appeared on the bridge in front of her a few minutes later. The lights and noise drew attention to it as it cut through the total peacefulness of the morning.

"Not quite London but still rather nice" Sherlock sighed as he wandered through the door to join her outside.

"I do miss London", she admitted, "but this place does have a certain charm". He responded with a "hm" and took a deep breath- well, as deep a breath as his battered ribs would allow. The detective leaned on the railings, wrapped up in the white sheet from the bed.

"It does doesn't it?" he mused, "I can see why you decided to stay".

"I stayed for the university, it ha-"

He turned a little so that he could watch her. "No you didn't," Sherlock cut in,"you stayed for him- the boy you were friends with." His eyes took on that familiar glazed over-ness that always appeared when he was deducing someone.

"No point in lying is there?," she said with a small, half-hearted laugh. "Yeah, I did. He changed his mind though. He doesn't see me now. Or talk to me. He just kinda left one day-" she shrugged and looked down, "he used to go into these moods where he would be sad and didn't talk much for days". Her eyes flickered up to Sherlock's as a small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth- oh yes, he knew what _those_ moods were like- before refocusing on a spot in the distance. "Usually if you gave him time he'd come back, he _always_ came back", her voice wavered slightly and she began playing with her hands. "But this time he didn't. He just-" A sharp intake of breath held in the tears that were brimming on her eyes. Sherlock already wanted to drop this boy from a window much like he had when those men hurt Mrs. Hudson. Instead he moved a little closer to her, offering his own form of comfort.

"He just didn't. And I don't know why. I did try, I tried everything, but he was only happy when he wasn't with me, so I just let him go" She'd straightened her back and closed her eyes, pushing away the emotions before they could impair her mind.

Sherlock reached out and placed a hand over hers. "You're still using the cup that he gave you for Christmas, by the looks of it you don't use any other," her head had dropped again. Sherlock now in the full force of a deduction carried on. He'd missed being able to do this out loud.

"The necklace you're wearing was a gift from him for your birthday and again, you wear it constantly unless you're in the shower. You weren't romantically involved though, you didn't love him like that," Sherlock's eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he fished for the details that he knew would lead him to an answer. "He was gay. You were just very, very close."

"Spot on, Sher," she looked up at him with red eyes, "as always. Bloody. Spot. On."

Rebecca spat the words at him and turned away from his grasp, cursing herself for letting something like _emotion_ rule her like this. She was angry, and relieved, but mostly just angry. Over the past months she'd managed to all but block out the thoughts of _him_ from her mind-not deleted, _never, ever, deleted_- just locked up in the attic of her mind palace away from the deductions and the logic. It was either feeling or deducing and _deducing, _she thought_, didn't hurt._

Sentiment was something that was usually lost on the Holmes family. They didn't hold onto childish scribbled pictures, or that cuddly bear you won at the fair that one time, but, each of the Holmes children had exceptions to this:

Mycroft always carries the same umbrella because he was given it by a Detective Inspector Lestrade one wet, rainy day while waiting for the driver outside Bart's after Sherlock had a relapse.

Sherlock always has a set of army dog tags in his pocket which belong to his "friend" (_are they still keeping that up?_ she thought, _really? It's so obvious_), Doctor John Watson. He often touched them when he was worried, and more recently had taken to holding them while being on the run was proving unbearable.

Rebecca has the necklace -and mug- that was given to her by her best friend as gifts. She wears the necklace at all times simply because having it there proves that _he_ was in her life- that she didn't just make someone so perfectly matched to her in everyway up one day to alleviate boredom and loneliness.

Each of the Holmes children has someone -other than each other- who they care for. Who, in their brilliant eyes, is proof that caring, sometimes, can be an advantage.

She let out a sigh -Sherlock couldn't be blamed for letting the detective part slip out of him, God knows she did it often enough herself. A distraction was needed and Sherlock needed fed, so she wandered to the kitchen to start breakfast. Rebecca turned the kettle on and put two pieces of brown bread into the toaster. Tea (_two sugars, lots of milk_) and toast with peanut butter soon appeared in front of Sherlock who had sat down at the kitchen table to fiddle with some of the experiments that had been abandoned the night before. He looked at the food in front of him with complete disdain but took the tea with a grateful smile which was returned. He sipped it experimentally before sighing, _just right_, he thought.

A few minutes passed and the toast still sat on the plate untouched.

"Sherlock Holmes, eat your breakfast" she stared at him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. Rebecca looked alarmingly like Sherlock when she made that face, he smiled at this but still refused to eat.

"You have the same views about eating while on a case as I do" he countered, "I'm still on a case".

"Yes, I do, which is why I'm not eating anything," her hands made a gesture to the empty space around her. "I am not on the verge of total starvation though. You need it, and you're doing bugger all to do with the case until you're better." She still stood staring at him, one eyebrow raised now, challenging him to argue. Truth be told, he knew that she was right, he was likely to make mistakes while he was in this state, so he took another sip of tea, (_god how he'd missed tea_) and took a bite of the toast.

A self-satisfied smile spread across her face. "When I do eat," she said, "I always have toast with peanut butter." She poured herself some more tea (_in the same mug,_ he noted) taking it the same way Sherlock does, and pulled out a chair next to him.

"It is palatable," Sherlock mumbled around a mouth full of toast, "but I hardly think its going to revive me".

The door bell rang just as the detective finished the first piece. She grinned at him, brown hair falling in her face, "I know, hence the shopping". Dressing gown twirling behind her, she made her way to the door and greeted the Tesco man. "Just to the right," she told him. He had three bags in each hand when he appeared in the kitchen, which he sat down on the floor before going to get the remaining two. He nodded a hello to Sherlock, trying not to stare at the man who was sitting in a sheet with peanut butter on his face, before getting a signature and leaving.

"Wonder if he knows about his wife and the missing cuff links?" she muttered to herself as the door clicked closed. Sherlock smiled to himself, Rebecca was always good with deductions, but she had outdone herself- he didn't get as far as cuff links in his own studies of the man- she had just beat her teacher at his own game, surprisingly this made pride blossom across the older Holmes' chest. Oblivious to the emotions that were washing over Sherlock she walked over to the bags. "I didn't have anything in," Rebecca explained looking through them, "I thought that I should feed you up a bit before we attempt anything".

He nodded in reply still watching her with a smile as she gracefully danced around the kitchen putting away the shopping. Sherlock couldn't help but look at her and think about how young she still looked. Her hair was long and messy from lying with him all night, tiny, thin but lean frame from years of ignoring food in order to keep her brain running at full speed and her pale skin all covered in freckles added to the innocence that she represented to him. She was happiness and safety and good memories all wrapped up in a perfect little body.

"Stop that," she had jumped up onto one of the counter tops and was turned to face him. "I'm eighteen, I'm fully capable of helping you". Her face was serious, voice unwavering. He wasn't questioning her ability, she was _more_ than capable, the Detective just didn't want anything to happen to this perfect little creature in front of him. A memory of a pool and a bomb vest and _panic_ and sniper lasers flashed across his mind. That was the last time he'd been truly terrified of losing someone. He never wished to feel that again.

Grey eyes locked with hazel ones, "I wasn't questioning your ability. I'm just very aware of the probability of things happening that are dangerous. The pool was proof enough of what Moriarty could do, his men, though they lack his mind and leadership, can still cause a significant amount of pain to either of us as my battered body goes to prove. If anything of the sort were to happen to you- it happened to Mrs. Hudson and I just- I will not allow it". Sherlock was talking quickly again as his brain had begun to wake up after being allowed rest and food.

"Sher, Sher," she stood up and ran over to him. Touching his cheek and smiling, her face affectionate and trusting, she told him, "I get it, it's fine." The detective turned his head and placed a kiss to her palm. "Now, you need a shower Mr. Holmes. We also need to get you some clothes," he rolled his eyes at the thought of shopping.

"Dull," he mumbled as he stood and made his way to the bathroom still holding a bit of toast. Rebecca rolled her eyes right back at him.

"I know it's dull but you can't wear a sheet for the next few weeks. Despite what you like to think, you're not a Roman Emperor or a Greek god so the toga look isn't happening. Gutting, I know, I really didn't want you to have to find out this way" she pouted her bottom lip and put on big, puppy dog eyes. He tried not to laugh, but she looked truly ridiculous.

"Fine," he sighed "give me an hour and I'll accompany you"

She flashed him her brightest smile, "brilliant".

"I think this is the first time in six years that I've seen you in anything other than a suit, or your pyjamas," Rebecca laughed as she looked the detective up and down. He was wearing dark, slim legged jeans, a white t-shirt, and a soft brown leather jacket. They made him look less battered and hid his bony body well. He almost looked normal now that he'd shaved and cleaned up.

"I can't say I prefer it to a suit, but it's incredibly difficult to find custom tailored jeans," said Sherlock as he squirmed uncomfortably in her gaze. She laughed and pushed him towards the door while putting on her grey Belstaff and a scarf.

"Bellstaff", sighed Sherlock as Rebecca turned to lock the door, "Oh how I miss my own"

"You have it with you, go get it if you like"

"No, I can't." her eyebrows furrowed together. "I might get recognised" Sherlock explained.

"I suppose" she shrugged her shoulders and turned up the collar of her coat.

They walked out of the building and into the cold air of autumnal Scotland. A London-style taxi was waiting for them across the street- Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her questioning why they couldn't just walk. "I thought it'd be better for you" she explained before climbing in the back seat and sliding towards the window. "We don't want the worlds only consulting detective passing out in Debenhams do we?" She smirked. He sat in the warm taxi and let the feelings that she brought out wash over him: safety, happiness, affection, trust, and looked out as the city passed around them a smile, a real smile, spread across his face and, _God, _he thought_,I've missed this._


	3. Chapter 3

So, this chapter is a little bit short, but it was just a little idea I had to bring a little bit of Jawn back.

Next chapter is going to be more case related, then after that IT'S REUNION TIME!

JOHNLOCK ANGST-Y-NESS!

But for now here are some minor Johnlock feels. Enjoy.

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"Take this...and this...oh! This is nice, this too" Rebecca muttered as she quite literally threw clothes at Sherlock who was beginning to crumble a little under the weight of all of this- this-_stuff. _He didn't think of himself as an unfashionable man, but he always preferred the classic black suit and his beloved Belstaff coat and quite frankly he didn't want to wear anything else so he didn't.

"Can't we just go along to the formal wear? I know my measurements I could just pick one up-"

"No." Her answer cut Sherlock off before he could continue to persuade her that a few suits was all he needed. Sadly, he'd been trying this for a half hour and hadn't cracked her brilliant little mind yet. She was even more stubborn than he was.

"I just think that something other than a suit would be good for you. Plus, you'd look like Jack Skellington in a suit just now- you're still too thin. We need to pad out your bones," she smiled at him as she took the clothes from his arms. "Okay, you go to the fitting room and start trying this stuff on. I'll hand some more stuff in as you go." Sherlock grumbled, but followed her nonetheless into the strangely empty male changing room. She put the clothing down onto a chair. "If you need a hand just tell Stuart here," she motioned to a young man dressed in an ill fitting suit with a staff name tag, who had appeared at her side. Sherlock's eyes scanned over him.

(_5'11, 22 years old, too much hair product, slight stubble- 1.6 days worth- visible veins protruding from forearms- gym member, low self-esteem due to fixation with body and appearance. Hair on trouser leg- cat, scottish fold, 2 years old, dirt on inner shoe- walked to work, lives in city centre, weak arches, leans more on left leg. Ugh, far too much aftershave)_

The man- Stuart- moved his gaze to Rebecca as she said his name,_ (dilated pupils, heart rate above normal for man of his age and height, blinking frequently)_ and stared at her much longer, and with much more _something_, than was appropriate. A heat started to boil in Sherlock's chest as he watched this poor show of a man practically devour the youngest Holmes with his eyes. Sherlock straightened to his full height. "Yes, thank you Rebecca," he said in a warm tone with a genuine smile, she returned it and left the fitting rooms in search of something to make Sherlock look less like a skeleton. The detective then glared at the man with the infamous Holmes Death Stare and spoke slowly. "I highly recommend that you refrain from looking at my cousin in such a way, in all circumstances and situations, if you want to remain in full working order. Also go and fetch me a pair of black, slim legged dress trousers." Stuart had paled and began nodding furiously at Sherlock. "Yes, of course, Mr. Holmes. Sor- sorry I would never, ever do- I'll just go and get those for you" Sherlock smirked to himself as the smaller man all but ran from the room, face a delightful shade of red, hands shaking. Sometimes knowing the basics of human psychology proved more than useful, it also extinguished the heat that had risen in his chest earlier and replaced it with a warm light that only sparked when he knew Rebecca was safe.

Rebecca gave a shudder as she walked from the fitting rooms and back out onto the main shopping area. Stuart had looked at her like that every single time she'd had the misfortune of bumping into him, it was uncomfortable at best.

A few people passed her as she wandered around examining the clothing and deciding what would look best on the mass of limbs that was her beloved cousin. He was just so damn tall, and lanky, and thin: trying to find clothes to fit that body type was a nightmare. She picked up a few plain dress shirts and another pair of jeans in a slightly lighter wash than the ones he had been wearing along with an armful of thick, warm jumpers that would make Sherlock seem less emaciated and more like a man who actually ate.

Some teenage girls (_two of them 15, the other 16 two weeks before)_ that were up ahead were staring at her and giggling to each other. It was normal, people laughing at her, but not because she was ugly- she was quite the opposite- or that she had toilet paper stuck to her shoe, but just because it seemed that people could almost sense that she worked differently to them and the way that people dealt with this was either by laughing or calling her names, "freak" being the majority favourite. It was times like this that she felt the absence of _him_ the most.

He would always defend her, putting her safely behind him and openly questioning and shaming the people who were causing her a problem. He'd then turn around and smile at her, the most soft, beautiful smile, that showed absolute trust and friendship, before making some terrible joke at which they both usually burst into hysterical laughter. It wasn't often that she permitted herself to relive memories in public, in the flat alone though, well, Rebecca had had her fair share of 'danger nights' as Mycroft so nicely put it. But instead of fighting them away this time she let it wash over her in a kind of heart-breakingly perfect sadnesss. She could see his skin, almost as pale as hers but not quite, his blonde hair that was cut short, and his eyes, blue with pupils that always seemed to swallow up the colour and made them seem darker than they were, the only time the colour was bright was when he had just woken up.

The sadness was getting stronger and so she decided that enough was enough, and as always, locked the thoughts away in the attic of her mind palace before she decided to do anything stupid to make them stop.

"Mr. Holmes here are the trousers, I guessed your measurements i-if it's not right i'd be happy to get you others" stammered Stuart as he laid a pair of expensive suit trousers just outside of the curtain Sherlock was behind. The detective smiled at the poor boys shaking voice, he hadn't meant to scare him that much, but he felt rather pleased that he had. "Thank you Stuart, that'll be all" he waved him away with a dismissive hand gesture and picked up the trousers. Surprisingly, Stuart had picked out his size correctly and had even picked a half way acceptable brand. Rebecca would likely throw a fit when she found him wearing these but he had always loved the feel of a well tailored suit against his skin.

Just then Rebecca walked back to the fitting rooms. Stuart was standing outside looking slightly shaken and avoiding her eyes. _Sherlock must've gotten to him, _she thought with a smirk.

"Sher, I brought some more stuff" she called out as she sat down on the large sofa that was situated in front of a wall length mirror. The elder Holmes emerged from behind the curtain still wearing the trousers. Rebecca's eyes narrowed and her mouth dropped from the smirk she'd been wearing into a hard line.

"When did you sneak those in then?" she asked. Sherlock just smiled at her. "Arse" she muttered, "more stuffs there" she huffed, pulling her knees up to her chest and crossing her arms in annoyance, bottom lip pouted slightly. Sherlock felt rather pleased with himself for managing to get one up on his cousin, it wasn't an easy feat after all, he laughed deep in his chest, placed a kiss on the top of her curls and picked up the small mountain of clothing that she had brought in. As he straightened something fell from the pile.

On the polished tile of the fitting room was an oatmeal coloured knitted jumper that bared a striking resemblance to one favoured by an ex-army doctor.

The air around Sherlock seemed to contain no oxygen. Each breath lacked its usual relief, his heart had kicked into overdrive, pumping out adrenaline at an alarming rate all because of a _jumper_. Rebecca watched as Sherlock stared at the piece of clothing on the floor with the most pained expression she'd ever seen painted across his face. Her mood was quickly forgotten as she quite literally watched the detective break in front of her. He blinked three times to try and focus his eyes around the moisture that had appeared in them before crumbling inwards and landing hard on the floor as black pulled at the edges of this vision.

He saw Rebecca jump up and run to him, he heard her shout for help and he heard the panic in her voice as she tried to reassure him but he couldn't draw enough attention to anything because the jumper was still on the floor.

It was the same. _Exactly_ the same, other than the fact that it didn't smell like tea and shampoo and warmth. And that it was empty. There wasn't a soft, brave, caring body inside of it.

_Something is missing here_, he thought. The darkness finally overwhelmed him and his eyes slid shut, but not before he figured out what was missing. He knew exactly what it was.

The Something was one John Hamish Watson.

Rebecca watched as Sherlock was loaded onto a stretcher and carried away through the staff exit. The paramedic that had arrived was well known to Rebecca, she often called him when she needed medical attention and didn't want to explain to the emergency room staff how a seventeen-year-old had managed to burn a hole in her arm with hydrochloric acid, or how he had managed to temporarily blinded herself with home-made eye drops because apparently "it was an experiment" or "for science" were not socially acceptable reasons for that kind of behaviour. The paramedic, Ben, walked over to Rebecca, "So, are we going to the hospital?..." she rolled her eyes at him so hard she felt the muscles straining. Ben just laughed. "I didn't think so. To your house then?", she nodded once and climbed into the back of the ambulance taking a hold of Sherlock's hand, rubbing small circles on the back of it with the pad of her thumb. Maybe it was due to the fact that he was so weak and that he hadn't eaten very much- _No, he's used to not eating. _Or maybe it was the weight of the clothes that just kind of did him in- _it wasn't that heavy._ She sighed melodramatically and focused on Sherlock's face; pale skin and smooth lips. She'd always loved how he looked when he slept- or when he was still unconscious- he was soft and innocent, all of the dark, mysteriousness that usually guarded his features was gone and all that was left was her Sherlock. She silently wondered if anyone else had ever seen Sherlock like this, so open and unguarded. It was a rare thing for Sherlock to let anyone in, even then, you never got all of the details.

_Maybe_ he'd let his friend in. _Maybe_ Dr. Watson had seen all of the corners of his mind and still liked the man afterwards.

_Maybe_, she thought.

"_Hopefully" _she whispered, bringing his hand up to her lips and placing a light kiss there.

"_Hopefully"._


	4. Chapter 4- Part One

So I did say that this chapter would be the case part, but I had this idea and decided to write it out. The next part really will be the case, I promise.

So, this chapter is kinda sad. Enjoy.

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Part One:

Six months had passed since the incident in Debenhams and both of the Holmes' were growing more and more anxious- and irritable- as the date approached.

One week from now they would be leaving the comforts of The Clock Tower in order to go and strike off the last name on Sherlock's list. Well, they say name but that wasn't strictly true considering that they were after one man that had twenty different 'names'. Three months of research had gone into finding these out: Sherlock had slipped into a drug ring as a dealer, while Rebecca frequented clubs and bars that belonged to different gangs hoping to find a definitive title for this man. Both alleys had only lead to danger nights for both of them and started up their nicotine addiction again.

Despite having relapses, they had both trained and eventually given up cigarettes in exchange for patches. Sherlock had put on weight, the majority of which- much to Rebecca's surprise- was muscle. He still didn't eat much, but then again neither did she and she hated hypocrisy so she didn't say anything about it. She also hadn't said anything about Sherlock's reaction to the jumper.

Fainting was not something that happened regularly and he was perfectly fine minutes before- happy even. So why had a simple oatmeal knit jumper caused him to crumble before her brilliant eyes? She didn't know, but she had theories. Seven of them.

The morning light had just began to filter through the clouds as the Detective walked into the kitchen. He'd slept much more in the past week than he had in years due to the fact that he was adamant that he would be in peak condition before they headed out to complete his task. Sherlock didn't allow himself to think past that stage for fear of fainting again. The jumper had simply caused his brain to go into overdrive as it pulled up all of the information about the man that usually wore it and it'd proven too much. He didn't think there was so much that he knew about J-...that man, but when he really looked in his room in the mind palace while he was unconscious in the back of the ambulance he found that he knew more about him than anything else. What bothered him most was that there were still gaps in this knowledge.

Shaking his head he moved towards the coffee maker and turned it on while pulling out two mugs from the cupboard. He could hear papers rustling in the living room, so he left the coffee to filter and made his way through. Rebecca was sitting on the floor in the centre of the room surrounded by pictures, her laptop perched on her knees. The room smelt of cigarette smoke and alcohol.

"Good morning" Sherlock said as he sat down on an old leather winged armchair. A pair of hazel bloodshot eyes flickered over to him and then back to the screen without so much as a nod of acknowledgement. All of the typical signs were there: the smoke, the alcohol, the lack of words but he couldn't figure out what had caused this particular one.

The pictures all around her were from a night that she had had with her school year when they had all officially finished school. They had been at a local park and decided to have a drink and eat and just enjoy the company of the people that they would most likely never see again. Rebecca was smiling in all of the pictures, her real smile, which made one spread across Sherlock's face too. The pictures still didn't help lead him to a cause though. He pondered all of the facts for a moment before deciding to simply ask.

"You've had a danger night," he had meant to make it sound like a question but it hung in the air as an observation.

She nodded once in a stiff movement, her eyes still locked on the screen.

"I don't understand why," Sherlock said. This seemed to snap the few strings that were holding Rebecca together. Her eyes moved towards him and narrowed, her mouth twisting into a vicious look of disgust.

"You are asking me why?" she spat each word at him, still glaring from her place on the floor.

"I'll tell you why Sherlock, because of these," she stood up and pointed down at the photos before beginning to pace.

"All of these worthless pieces of paper. They don't mean anything to me. But then last night _he_ phoned me drunk out of his mind and he talked to me. He talked about how he was cold and beside the trees and how it reminded him of that time at the park and how much he liked it. He said, "do you remember that Becca? 's when we were friends, shame we're not now. 'Spose everything changes for a reason. Good night". '_Were_' Sherlock. He used the past tense." Some of the anger turned into hurt then, as the words that she was saying hit her.

"So I've spent the night here trying to remember what that night was like and failing and so I found the pictures and they just made it worse so I thought what the hell and got drunk." She had a bitter smile on her lips as she stood staring at the empty bottles that littered the floor. Sherlock knew all too well how easy it was to give into these things when his mind wouldn't stop racing over all of the things that he didn't want to think about and he figured that it would be the same, if not worse, for Rebecca. He wasn't sure what to say, he always hated it when people tried to comfort him after a bad night and so instead he offered what he could- a logical solution.

"Forget about him," he said. The coffee machine sounded from the kitchen and he rose to go and pour it.

Rebecca stood frozen in place. Had he really just suggested that she simply 'forget him'? As if it were easy. As if she wanted to spend her nights drinking herself into oblivion because she was making those thoughts circle her mind. Her feet began to move slowly towards the kitchen. Sherlock stood with his back to her, the coffee pot in his right hand.

"What did you just say?" She asked slow and deliberate. The detectives head turned to the side slightly.

"I said to forget him. Much less hassle if you do" he said over his shoulder before turning back to add sugar to the steaming cups.

"I can't do that". He sighed and turned to face her.

"Of course you can. Don't be so stupid and get it over with. You're useless like this" his voice was firm as he watched her.

"Oh, you mean like how you're a brilliant help whenever you see a fucking beige jumper?!" Sherlock cringed slightly at her words, he didn't think that she had figured that one out yet.

"Of course I know what that was all about. It reminded you of him. Well take that feeling and add to it the fact that _he_'s in the same city, every day and that I could technically go and see him. You can't go and see John and you pay the price for that every time something reminds you of him. Why don't you just go and forget about him then?" She had shouted the words quickly, a red tinge had appeared across her nose and cheeks as well as the back of her neck. She had a point. Sherlock knew that he couldn't forget about John even if he tried.

"I didn't ever say that I wanted to forget him. I simply have a better handle on my emotions than you do." He was trying to be helpful but he knew that he was awful with emotion and so he did what he always did and reverted back to facts and logic.

A few tears had escaped from Rebecca's eyes just as Sherlock realised that he hadn't said the right thing. She didn't need cold truths, she needed warm happy lies that would make her feel better.

"No Sherlock," she whispered, "the difference is that when you go back John will still be there and he will still love you. He'll hate you for a while but then he'll take you back because he's in my situation. He's the one that got abandoned by the one person that he thought would never leave," she sighed and shook her head.

"The difference is that John didn't leave."

And with that Rebecca grabbed her coat and walked out of the apartment leaving Sherlock to wonder if he really blamed her for her behavior. After all, if John ever left he would do much worse than get drunk. He didn't know what he would do, but he now understood why Rebecca couldn't forget this boy- her friend. She couldn't forget him in the same way that John had found it impossible to forget about Sherlock regardless of how hard he tried. He understood why the boy didn't think of her, because he didn't think of John.

He understood what this must have done to John.

He understood what this had done to him.

He understood, and he really, really didn't want to.

That day had passed in a strange, drunken blur for both of the Holmes' members. Rebecca had wandered from bar to bar, managing to appear incredibly sober despite the huge amount of alcohol she'd drank. Sherlock had taken to sitting in the flat drinking to forget the pain he'd caused everyone because of his own stupid, stupid brain.

She reappeared at twenty six minutes past one in the morning and staggered over to the sofa where a large Sherlock-shaped body was lying passed out. She threw her coat off and onto the floor before crawling onto the space at the elder Holmes side and snuggling up close. She knew that he didn't mean what he'd said and by the looks of him he'd made sure to punish himself and so she forgave him. How could she not?

Sherlock felt a warm weight against his side that smelt of vanilla and cinnamon- Rebecca- and so he lifted an arm and held her close as she slept off the poison she'd filled her veins with. He knew that this was her way of saying that they were okay, that it was fine.

It was all fine.

"It's... It's time" Sherlock announced as he walked into the kitchen carrying a black backpack.

"Yeah. Yeah it is," Rebecca agreed nodding. "A suit though Sher, really?" Her right eyebrow was raised in question as she looked over her cousin. He was standing in his trademark outfit: perfectly tailored black suit, white shirt, Belstaff and that ratty old scarf that he always seemed to have. He looked down at his body, a confused look capturing his features.

"What else was I supposed to wear?" Rebecca just laughed at him and grabbed her coat and bag. They headed for the door but paused and turned back to have one last look, after all, it wasn't guaranteed that they would both be back. Sherlock look back at the mis-matched furniture and the strange wallpaper that was reminiscent of 221B and smiled. He really had enjoyed his time here, the city was bright, and any time that he got to spend with Rebecca was always good.

She was looking around at the memories that had carved themselves into the walls. The nights spent with a blonde haired boy that would never come back and then the bright days spent with her Sherlock who would never leave. A large hand fell on her shoulder and gave a light squeeze of reassurance before guiding her away from her beloved flat and out into the lift that would lead them to their task. Rebecca reached up and took Sherlocks hand in her own and held on tightly.

"It's fine" he whispered into her hair placing a light kiss there, "I'm here". She nodded once and wiped her face with the back of her free hand. Now wasn't the time for tears or sentiment. She needed to concentrate, to focus, after all, Sherlock's life depended on it.


	5. Chapter 4- Part Two

Part two, the case. Enjoy!

The motorways lay out empty and leading onto forever in front of them as they headed out of the city. Rebecca had insisted on driving to distract her mind, but the roads were so empty that she didn't need to spare much thought to the road. Sherlock sat in the passenger seat, he'd taken off his coat and scarf and thrown them on the back seat along with their bags.

"We should arrive there at around two in the morning. The roads will still be quiet so in theory we can be finished by dawn,"he muttered while flicking through his phone. The plans had been laid out and settled for a month but he was feeling twitchy and talking his thoughts was helping. He could tell that Rebecca was on edge too, her fingers had been drumming the steering wheel since they left the car park of The Clock Tower.

"Yes, but don't bet on it. I'd rather we take longer and do this properly than you run in guns blazing and get yourself shot or stabbed again," she flickered her eyes over to her cousin, she still hadn't forgiven him for that first night. Arse, she thought.

They pulled up to an old warehouse just outside Glasgow at one fifty-eight. The streets were empty other than a few night lurchers that were wandering around in their drunken haze. Sherlock reached around and grabbed the bags from the back seat. He handed Rebecca a gun and extra bullets before taking a gun for himself and tucking it in his suit jacket. Usually before these kind of tasks he felt nothing. A strange calm would come over him and he would walk in the door with his head held high and face whatever part of the web was waiting for him, but tonight he could feel his body pumping out adrenaline to his muscles, his brain was running through the plans so quickly he felt like it might catch fire.

Rebecca tucked her gun in the back of her jeans and turned to face Sherlock. He was lost in though, staring absentmindedly at the dashboard clock, his lips were moving as if he were talking. She watched them for a moment and managed to decipher what he was saying. _It'll be okay he said it's all fine and it is, it will be, I'll be home soon, _he mouthed. His eyes closed and he exhaled before whispering something that she didn't catch.

"Sher, we need to go," she reached over and took his hand. He nodded and opened his door.

The gates were all open and the doors unlocked as they tip-toed their way inside. Both knew of the dangers that lay ahead, these people didn't shoot to injure, they were much more thorough. A blue door with a window sat at the end of the corridor, a light turned on inside the room. Both Holmes looked at each other, there was no turning back now, and thought of that one person- the one that had left and the one that never would- before standing straight and pushing the door open.

"You both came!" he shouted, opening his arms as though he was going to hug them both. He stopped and looked them both over as they did the same to him. Both brilliant minds confirmed that this was their man and that there were approximately three shooters currently aiming for the kill. Rebecca spoke first, her head held high and her voice firm. She took on the same expression and pose as Sherlock did when confronting criminals- distant and condescending.

"Lovely of you to come out and see us. We did come a long way just to have a little chat with you", the man walked over and circled her once before reaching out hand and running it down her jawline. Sherlock fought back the urge to kill him there and then.

"Aren't you a beautiful little creature," he said smiling, "all pale skin and freckles, the picture of innocence. But I can see the mind behind those pretty little eyes, you're dangerous and that only makes you more perfect". He was almost touching her he was standing so close, she seemed unaffected and stood her ground. She even figured that it'd be fun to play along. Her eyes flickered to Sherlock and she smiled.

"I've been told so before, and I am most definitely dangerous, especially to people like you," she took a step forward and pushed him so that he sat down on the edge of a desk. Her hand remained on his neck lightly, affectionately even. She leaned in and whispered in his ear, "we both know that one of us isn't going to be walking out of here tonight and I can assure you that it will not be either of us."

He pulled back and looked into her eyes before laughing manically. The hair on the back of Sherlock's neck stood on end, there was something wrong here...something that they hadn't deduced.

"Oh my dear I wouldn't be saying things like that. You haven't seen who else has come out to play" Rebecca straightened and flinched away. He had to be bluffing.

"No" the word escaped her lips and betrayed her before she could control it. Everyone has a weakness, and if he was telling the truth, he had found hers and was going to use it.

He adjusted his tie and cleared his throat, "see you my dear Rebecca, have two weaknesses. Two things that can get past that icy little exterior you've worked so hard to build up. The first one is standing right here, Mr. Holmes pleasure to meet you," he held out a hand which Sherlock shook once.

"I know you try and keep your big cousin a secret for this exact reason, but I found out. The second person is one that I think will work much better." He flashed a smile before turning on a laptop and adjusting it so that she could see the screen. In a room somewhere sat a boy, no older than her, he was strapped to a chair and was bloodied and beaten by the looks of things. As the picture cleared she could make out a few strands of blonde hair amongst those that were darkened with dirt. The boy raised his head and looked straight at the camera.

Sherlock launched forward and grabbed Rebecca's arms just as she had started to reach for her gun. She struggled against his grasp while she screamed at the computer screen. It was her friend, the boy that had left. She continued to struggle as the man reclined in the chair smiling.

"That's exactly the reaction I was hoping for," he pulled out a mobile phone and pressed a few buttons.

"Hello, give that boy another round wold you? We have an audience this time".

Rebecca froze in her cousins arms as she watched the brutal attack take place. First it was fists against his jaw, then metal bars against his ribs. Sherlock pulled her close and hid her face in his side as she shook. He hadn't planned for this to happen. She hadn't either.

The shaking subsided and controlled anger began to cloud her mind. She was smarter than him and all of his minions put together, she could beat him.

"What will it take?' she asked.

"I want his work finished," he replied, "I want Sherlock Holmes dead."

A deep baritone laugh broke the atmosphere.

"I think I've proven that that is a rather difficult task. One that an idiot like you would have no hopes of achieving."

"I would think otherwise. Your little cousin here is far greater than you Mr. Holmes, and I have her in the palm of my hand now."

Sherlock had moved so that he was standing in front of the man, his shoulders were squared and his back was straight, bringing him up to his full height. Rebecca had ignored their conversation in favor of studying the boy on the screen.

She could feel her heart break in her chest as the poor boys head drooped against his chest in defeat. Thats when one of the men who had administered the beating walked over to the boy and set about wiping his face and pouring water over him. His face and neck were now clean, but his head was facing the floor.

Then she noticed it. The boy's newly cleaned skin revealed a very visible, very dark freckle on the back of his neck just below the hairline. _He _didn't have any freckles on his neck.

A newly restored confidence washed over her and she walked over to join Sherlock. She reached a hand out and wound it around his waist, feigning the need for comfort while taping a message into his side in morse code, letting him know what she had just seen. When she had finished he reached an arm around her shoulders and tapped back a reply, and telling her that their initial count of shooters was off. There was only two shooters.

If there were going to act it had to be now. Rebecca squeezed Sherlock's waist in warning and turned towards the rafters, fired two shots and watched as two bodies fell. The shooters were gone and all that remained was the man. The last name. The only thing standing between Sherlock and home.

She walked over and placed her hand back on the mans neck as he looked over at the bodies with terrified eyes.

"You really think that I wouldn't figure it out?" she breathed against his ear, "Oh, your hearts beating rather fast isn't it? Scared are we?"

"Oh my dear, it pains me to do this. To ruin such a perfect little body with such an ugly scar, but I can see you're no stranger to them." She felt his arm snake around her waist and pull her forward slightly before a blinding pain shot through her abdomen.

"I had to break you in order to break him," he nodded over towards Sherlock before pushing her away. She staggered back, hands clamped over her stomach in shock.

Shots were fired and shouts were cut short when black swallowed her up. She felt a pair of strong arms catch her before she hit the ground and a broken voice begging her to stay awake but the dark was just so much more welcoming and being awake hurt too much. She didn't fight against it, there was no point, she just let it wash over her and drag her down deeper and deeper until everything faded.


	6. Chapter 5

I know I said this would be reunion. I know i've changed every single time i've said it's reunion. I'm sorry, but I like seeing Sherlock being all lovely with Rebecca and I re-watched TRF and i'm having trouble thinking about johnlock without breaking down into tears.

Also, I can't get over how many of you are reading. It's crazy. Thank you all so much. I love you all.

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A grey car screeched to a halt outside of the siding A&E doors and a man flew from the driver side. He picked up the damaged little body from the back seat and held her close as he ran in demanding that someone help her. He couldn't see for tears and refused to give her body over to the doctors as they tried to pry her from his arms.

"Please let go of her. We can't help her unless you do" said an older man dressed in dark blue scrubs. Shaky arms set her down onto the bed and a numb mind watched as she was pushed through doors followed by a herd of medical people.

Sherlock dragged himself over to a chair and leaned forward, his head falling into his hands. She wasn't ever supposed to get hurt but her stupid confidence had gotten her stabbed. Twice he'd managed to puncture her skin before a bullet had been placed in his skull. Two times to many.

Ideally his death would be slow and painful, but panic had taken over and the gun had fired before Sherlock's mind realised what had happened.

He'd begged her to stay awake, but he knew that was something that she couldn't do. He had picked her up brought her to the hospital as quickly as the car would allow. In fact, he was sure that he had heard sirens following them for a while, but that was irrelevant: Rebecca had needed help and that is exactly what she would get.

"Excuse me sir, are you with the girl?" asked a young nurse.

He nodded in confirmation and lifted his head.

"Come with me" she instructed, holding out a hand to him, he didn't take it, he simply stood and waited for her to lead the way.

They arrived at a door and she showed him in. It was all white washed walls and uncomfortable plastic chairs with that awful hospital smell.

"Nice to see you again Sherlock," chirped a disgustingly familiar voice from somewhere behind him. Sherlock sighed and turned around to face the source of the voice.

"Yes, always a pleasure Mycroft. How's Lestrade?" Sherlock sneered taking up a chair opposite. He sat with his umbrella leaning against his knees sipping from a cup of coffee. Sherlock could see behind the 'ice man' exterior, he could see that Mycroft was exhausted and more so, he could see the panic and worry in his eyes. He looked at his younger brother.

"How is she?" he asked the concern now evident in his voice.

"Stabbed, twice. She was leaning over him and he did it before I could act. They've not told me anything about her condition"

Mycroft's hand reached up and he rubbed his eyes.

"I cannot assure her surv-"

"She isn't going to die." Sherlock said the words with such emotion that Mycroft decided not to press the issue further. He could control many things and usually assure the outcomes were what he wanted, but not this time. This time he had to trust in others to take care of his precious Rebecca. The problem being that they were all Holmes' and they tended not to trust anyone.

The brothers sat in silence for two hours in that room. No doctors came with news, there was no movement from outside of the doors, or people, or anything. Sherlock's brain rarely ever fully shut down, usually there was always a problem working away in there or deductions taking place faster than his eyes could move, but there, in that god forsaken white room, he felt nothing. Mycroft was much the same but he did think- about her.

He thought of all the memories that he had with Rebecca: that day in the park when she was five, the birthday cake that she and Sherlock had made him (and burnt) when he was fifteen and the way that everything just felt a little bit better when she was around. She was a light in the otherwise dangerously dark lives of the brothers, that if extinguished would surely mean the end for them both.

Mycroft's eyes started to sting with tears that he refused to let fall as he thought of the possibility of a world without the freckled little ball of pale-ness and curly hair that she was.

"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes and...uh, Mr. Holmes, Rebecca is out of surgery and in ICU for the time being. A lot was damaged by th-" the poor doctor never had a chance to finish as Sherlock sprinted out of the door followed sit by Mycroft who was traveling at a more socially acceptable speed.

The corridors were all too long for Sherlock's liking as he flew past doctors and confused patients trying to find Rebecca. He arrived at a large hospital map which he promptly memorised and began heading in the right direction.

Two flights of stairs later Sherlock skidded into the door and bounced off of it into the room.

Rebecca lay wrapped in white sheets covered in sensors and wires and tubes, all monitoring her and giving Sherlock's brain an onslaught of information about her condition. Her brain activity was good, high even, and her heart was still going strong. Just like her to be stubborn enough to still act alive while on the brink of death, he thought.

He walked over to the left hand side of her bed and picked up one of her tiny hands in his own. Her skin was soft, even the scars, and cold like they usually were. He placed four kisses on her fingers before just resting her hand against his lips and breathing in her scent- vanilla and cinnamon and coffee.

"Oh dear," Mycroft breathed as he dropped his umbrella and all but ran over and placed a hand on her forehead and began smoothing back her curls. Sherlock had never seen his brother look so... Devastated? Broken? Worried? He lowered and kissed her head before assuming the same pose as his younger brother, but on her right hand side.

They both sat like this for hours, neither needing food or sleep more than they needed to make sure that those machines kept beeping and that her chest keep rising.

The next day at twelve- seventeen Sherlock noticed her eyes moving behind closed purple, eyelids.

"Mycroft. MYCROFT!," Sherlock shouted squeezing Rebecca's hand and taking in a deep breath. The eldest Holmes' sat up straight in his chair and watched as a pair of hazel eyes flickered open. Relief rushed over the brothers as huge smiles spread across their faces as those, very much alive eyes looked between them.

"At least I get a welcome party here", she mumbled, her voice rough with sleep. Sherlock released his breath and laughed once before beginning to sob quietly. She began to sit up but stopped as pain shot through her.

"It'll take more than an idiot with a knife to get me Sher," she smiled up at him from the bed, "I am a Holmes after all".

Mycroft leaned over and kissed her head.

"Indeed you are", he said in a tone of complete adoration. She turned her sharp gaze over and focused it on him for a second. A smile pulled at her mouth.

"I knew it!" she laughed, the sound was like music to the brothers ears.

"I knew it! I knew it! You and the DI! Mr. Holmes that is terrible, mixing work and home like that" she faked a disapproving tone but continued to smile. Mycroft laughed too and shook his head.

"When are you ever wrong?" he asked, "but yes, three months next week. Gregory and I are very happy".

Sherlock dropped his gaze and began to play with Rebecca's hand. She seemed to sense his discomfort and quickly changed subject.

"So," she said, "who wants to go get me a doctor to argue with? I would very much like to go home and they won't like that".

"Already taken care of, dear," Mycroft patted her hand, "there's a car waiting outside".

The smile that she flashed him was blinding. She reached out and took both of their hands, raised them to her lips and kissed them.

"You two are the best," she smiled.

"Sher, could you go get me a coffee please, I'm gasping for one," Rebecca asked looking over at the detective. He gave her a closed lipped smile, the one that lit up he eyes, and nodded before heading out of the room. She waited until she heard the doors of the lift open and then close before turning to Mycroft.

"How is he?" she asked.

"Dr. Watson has had a rough two years. I do not think that Sherlock simply arriving at the door of 221B would be the best," Mycroft worried the end of his umbrella handle as he spoke.

Rebecca nodded, "I'll go first," she suggested. Mycroft's head snapped up, his mouth opening slightly before snapping shut. Her eyes were bright as she watched the cogs turn in the eldest Holmes' head.

"I actually think that would be a excellent idea. You do look very alike after all and I believe that the presence of deductions and danger," she smiled, "would improve his emotional state enough for us to introduce Sherlock back into his life."

They heard a deep sigh come from the doorway. Sherlock stood, a coffee in his hand which he gave to Rebecca.

"As much as I would like to return to Baker Street as soon as possible I agree with what you've both said. I don't want to hurt him more than I already have." He sat down on the edge of the bed.

Rebecca took a drink from her coffee and sighed as the caffeine rushed into her bloodstream then moved to sit beside him. He leaned over and put his head in the crook of her neck as he hand reached up and began to stroke his head. After a moment, Sherlock began to speak.

"He likes strong tea with one and a half sugars, two late at night. He doesn't appreciate body parts in the fridge, but doesn't ever complain about experiments on the kitchen table if you leave some space clean. He favours strawberry jam and white bread. He wears the most hideous jumpers, but seeing as you are rather partial to those I doubt you'll mind. He has nightmares, but if I play violin he doesn't so I suggest that you get your guitar. He constantly badgers about how much you've eaten and will always make tea and pick up milk and put a blanket on you if you fall asleep on the sofa." Sherlock's hand moved to his face and touched the skin below his eyes before straightening.

"We'll give you a few months to recover and then another few months with John. When you deem it appropriate I'll come back," he gave her a small smile and offered her his hand as she stood. Mycroft was waiting by the door holding a small bag of clothes that he had brought her.

"That sounds very reasonable Sherlock," Mycroft said, no hint of malice or hatred in his voice.

The three Holmes headed out of the room and closed the door behind them. A black car was waiting for them outside, they climbed in, Mycroft in the driver seat while Sherlock and Rebecca sat in the back. The engine started and they pulled away taking the nearest slip road onto the motorway and drove towards one of Mycroft's houses that didn't technically exist in the eyes of the British Government.

The sun slowly fell from the sky just as rain started to fall onto the windows. Rebecca moved to the middle seat and pulled Sherlock's coat away from him before curling up against his side and falling asleep. He wrapped the coat around her tiny body and placed an arm around her lightly, avoiding the stretch of her side that would still be tender from the attack. Despite the pain that it would cause him he was willing to let her break John back into life with one of the Holmes because it would help him. He trusted Rebecca and believed that if anyone could fix the man that he had broken, it would be her. He leaned and kissed her head.

_A few more months_, he thought,_ I can survive a few more months_.


	7. Chapter 6

Hi, me again. Still not reunion time, but it will be soon.

I'd really appreciate some reviews just so I had a better idea of what you all think so far, so please leave them to let me know if you're still reading, or f you've just started reading, or anything. Just let me know.

But, I digress, story time.

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Three_ months later _

It was just after rush hour in London when a very tired Ex-Army Doctor made his way along Baker Street towards the black door at the side of Speedy's cafe. The air was cold, but he didn't rush like many of the others that passed him- his leg was getting worse as the days passed and the cold always made his shoulder hurt.

A sigh escaped his lips ask he raided his pocket trying to find his keys with frozen fingers while leaning against the railings.

Rebecca had been in the flat two hours after John had left for work and had unpacked her things in Sherlock's old room. She hadn't moved anything, only added one photo frame to the bedside table of her smiling with a blonde haired boy.

Mrs. Hudson had kept in contact with Mycroft after Sherlock's 'death', sending updates about John every week and had met Rebecca at Kings Cross that morning. They had never met, but they had been writing to each other and Mrs. Hudson already looked at Rebecca in the same way she did John and Sherlock- they were "her boys" and Rebecca was now "_her_ girl".

She had made tea and cakes for the arrival of the youngest Holmes, none of which she ate, before joining her in 221B for what Rebecca had labelled "the Holmes' initiation party". Everything had been set and the music was playing so loudly that Mrs. Hudson swore she could see dust fall from the roof as Rebecca gracefully -if not slightly awkwardly- danced around the flat. They'd been waiting for the Doctor all day and Rebecca was _bored_.

There was a brief pause as one song ended and another began, the sound of the downstairs door opening and closing was heard and both women looked at each other: Mrs. Hudson sporting a worried grimace while Rebecca's face spread into that infamous Holmes' grin before she took off dancing across the coffee table again with the music.

Technically the music didn't need to be that loud and Rebecca didn't technically need to be dancing quite as much, but she wanted to get rid of John's limp as quickly as possible, and she'd rather enjoyed her and Mrs. Hudson's dance party. She could hear the uneven pattern of John's steps as he climbed the first few stairs before they paused.

He stopped on the fifth stair. There was music coming from his flat. Loud music. He listened- footsteps walking around the flat (too light to be Mrs. Hudson), and a female voice was singing along to the words. Irene Adler's face flashed into his mind, but the voice wasn't hers. Curiosity got the better of him as his adrenaline infused muscles carried him towards the door of 221B. The cane that he'd been using was left leaning against the wall.

He tip toed over the squeaky floorboards and looked through the small crack in the door into the living room. A girl was dancing around in a dark red dressing gown, her hair was long, curled and wispy just like... Just like _his_ had been, but it was reddish brown rather than raven.

"She said, I'm in love with someone else!" she sang, "I fell in love with someone else and I-i'm in love with someone and that's all that I know for sure" her voice mixed in with the male singers in a strange sot of way, not bad, but not perfect either.

"C'mon Mrs. Hudson sing!" she laughed as she danced in the middle of the room with the landlady, who was laughing and dancing too.

On the count of three, John thought, One...two...th-

"For the love of god John, come in already!" shouted the girl as music faded into a quite hum in the background. Mrs. Hudson opened the door and patted his cheek.

"I'll leave you two to sort it out" she smiled and returned to her flat downstairs. The girl had wandered over to the window, standing with her back to John, she picked up _his_ violin and began to play.

"No- no. You need to put that down" John said as he all but marched into the living room. This stranger had broken into his flat and started touching things that didn't get touched.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" he demanded. She set the violin down on the back of Sherlock's chair but didn't turn around just yet.

"Hello? I said 'who are you'?" John was getting annoyed now. His back was straight, shoulders square and his jaw set, ready for whatever was about to happen next. Not that he would admit it, but he'd missed this feeling of dangerous uncertainty. He'd missed it, and he was sure that he was ready for anything... that was until she turned around and faced him.

She was pale and freckled with unruly curls, the same piercing, analytical stare and perfect cupid's bow lips that weren't as prominent as _his_, but still very much there. She was undeniably a Holmes' and most certainly related to him. She smiled at him- the same close-mouthed smile as her look-a-like-and nodded over to John's armchair. Without a word he wandered over and sank down, his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't remember how to close it.

"I'll put the kettle on" she announced and began walking to the kitchen, her dressing gown flying out behind her. John's head followed her and watched as she pulled out his mug and added her own. She put two very large spoonfuls of sugar into her own mug before adding one and a half to his. Rebecca turned and looked at John- his mouth was still hanging open- this was a two sugars situation, she deduced. She added milk to both cups before carrying them back to the living room and perching herself on Sherlock's chair, back straight, eyes combing over John in that oh so familiar way.

"You're deducing me," he stammered. A smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth, anyone else would have missed it, but John was accustomed to Holmes' nano-expressions.

"Yes," she nodded, "as are you to me," John's gaze dropped to his cup.

"No I'm not, I-I can't do that like you lot can," his voice was a whisper as he spoke. Rebecca continued to watch the Doctor for a moment, she understood why Sherlock found John so interesting.

"Yes you are. You learnt something from him and to deny it does him a dis-service," John's head snapped up and his eyes locked with hers.

"He taught me everything I know, Dr. Watson. Sherlock is..._was_ my cousin. He and Mycroft all but raised me," she stated matter-of-factly.

John burst out into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. From shell-shocked, to giggling in half a second. She couldn't deny it: John Watson was fascinating.

"What?" she asked, pulling her knees up to her chest and perching her cup in the top of one.

"Just the thought of Sherlock and Mycroft raising a child," there were tears forming in the corners of his eyes- he was still laughing.

"I left him with a hamster once, we'd found it on a case, and I went to get milk and by the time I got back the thing was gone. I'd only been out ten minutes," John's laughs slowed down and the tears turned from ones of happiness to ones of pain.

He looked over at the little version of Sherlock that was perched on his chair, wearing a dressing gown like his and doing deductions and felt a huge wave of missing-sherlock crash over him. He'd long passed the point of wiping away tears.

Rebecca watched, fascinated, as John began to cry quietly in his chair. Emotion really wasn't her area but something about the blonde haired man sitting there made her want to try and help him. She'd only ever felt that for one person outside of Sherlock and Mycroft and the possibility of investing time into someone and getting it thrown back at her again was one that she didn't want to chance so she just took another sip of her tea.

"You're the spitting image of him," John smiled, "absolute double of him and I'm not very sure why, but I feel better with you here".

"He used to say the same thing," Rebecca nodded, "Mycroft too. Said I make them feel better, I mean, and it's obviously worked for you seeing as you abandoned your walking stick as soon as you heard me in here," she smirked at him and looked over in the direction of the staircase. John looked around for his cane, but sure enough it wasn't in the living room. He turned and looked at Rebecca again, a smirk still plastered across her perfect features, before all but running out to the stairs. On the fifth stair leaning against the wall was his cane. He walked down the stairs in utter disbelief and picked it up before heading back upstairs to ask _how_? And _why_? And just, "_what?_!"

The youngest Holmes hadn't moved an inch since John had run to get his stick, she was still perched on the chair sipping at her tea.

He didn't know if it was the fact that she looked like him, or that she was in his chair sitting like her used to, or that she made his tea perfectly, or that she'd cured his limp within twenty minutes of being there, but something about that perfect little creature made John break. The tears flowed more freely than before as he made his way over to her, throwing his cane on the chair as he passed. She stood up as John approached and just watched him slowly close the gap between them as his arms wound around her and he sobbed into her shoulder. He was muttering about Sherlock: about how he missed him and how he should have told him something before it happened. Rebecca moved her arms around the Doctor and held him tightly, one hand stroking his hair, offering the little comfort she knew how to- Sherlock always seemed to calm down when she played with his hair, and so John might too.

She didn't know what it was, if it was the way he had already accepted her in 221B, or the fact that he looked at her with kind, soft eyes the way that _he_ used to, or just the fact that he was someone that meant something to Sherlock, but something made Rebecca tighten her arms and open herself up to John, after all, they were both trying to deal with the one person that they needed leaving without warning. They were the ones that had been left to pick up the pieces of the lives they no longer felt were worth living.

John pulled back slightly, "I-I don't even know your name."

Rebecca looked at John Watson and decided that he was worth opening up for, that maybe- just maybe- he would be the kind of person that wouldn't leave and that would need her just as much as she knew she would need him. He held on to her still buried into her neck.

"Rebecca," she whispered into his hair, "Rebecca Holmes."

She felt John loosen his grip on her and take a step back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He took a deep breath and composed himself in a few seconds.

"Right then," he said, "Fancy something to eat?"

"I'd love something," she smiled.

John grabbed his coat and handed Rebecca hers and her scarf, "I know a great italian place just around the corner."

"Angelo's?!"

"Angelo's"


	8. Chapter 7

So, I decided that the last few chapters are going to be in mostly Rebecca's POV. I don't know why, I just think it works better.

Read, review, favourite and all that.

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_Rebecca POV:_

John had fallen asleep roughly an hour after we had returned from Angelo's on his chair by the fire. He was all soft lines and jumpers and tea- really not the person I'd pick for Sherlock, but apparently John is everything.

You should hear Sherlock talk about him, I think the expression is "like he put the stars in the sky". His eyes go all distant and a small smile pulls at his lips whenever the Army Doctor is mentioned and I'd seen him blush a few times.

Sherlock Holmes. _Blushing_.

Either he'd finally taken the leap into madness, or this little warm person had cracked through the hard persona he usually put up. I'd been the only person that had ever truly gotten into Sherlock's head, but I think that has to do with the fact that he helped build mine- I did spend almost everyday of my childhood with him and I think that we think the same way.

But now there were two of us, me and John, inside of that little twisted heart of Sherlock's.

Well, its not twisted, just hidden, and ignored a lot.

I went into Sherlock's/my room and got one of the old tattered blankets that were folded up in the corner. Despite the fact that he hadn't set foot in the flat for two years, the blankets still smelled like Sherlock: warm and sweet and masculine. With the blanket in hand I walked back to the living room and wrapped it around John. He had a hard day and I really didn't want to wake him. He moved slightly before taking hold of the blanket and snuggling into it, one corner pulled up to his face, and sighed before falling back into REM sleep.

Usually I'm not so fussy. _Usually_ I'd just wake the person up and tell them to move, but something about John Watson stopped me.

I think he reminded me of _him_, but before everything fell apart, back when _he_ was warm and soft and mine. I laughed a little at the thought. I'd known John a day and other than Sherlock's stories and a few deductions, I didn't know him like I had my friend, but I still felt the same warm pull towards him.

Captain John Watson: the only man in the world to get into the heart of two Holmes' and make a home for himself there.

Sleep wasn't something that interested me, not since the danger night a few months back with the photos and then the attack- nightmares- and so I wandered into the kitchen and slid the doors closed. Some of Sherlock's science equipment was stacked up in the corner and so I decided to revive it.

Sherlock had said that John didn't usually mind experiments on the kitchen table as long as there was space left for him, and so I marked off an area as "john's".

There wasn't really anything to experiment on in the flat. I really needed to get John to phone up that Molly girl and ask her to let me into the morgue soon. I didn't really want to experiment on myself, and Mrs. Hudson said no when I had asked her earlier...and John _was_ asleep...I picked up a swab and a container and quietly opened the doors to the living room. He was still wrapped up in the blanket, but his mouth was open. I crouched down at the side of the chair and raised the swab to his mouth. He decided that it would be a good idea to wake up right then.

"WHAT THE- THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU DOING?!" he screamed as I stood up and screwed the lid back onto the container.

"Experiment," I told him while going back into the kitchen. Really, there wasn't any need to be that upset, I was only wanting a cheek swab.

"And you think that it's appropriate to do that while I sleep?" He had quietened a bit, but he was breathing heavy and his nostrils were flared.

"I had asked , but she said no and you were asleep" I pointed out while I peeled the label from the swab. John stood for a moment fuming in the kitchen before he opened his mouth four times, on the fifth, words came out.

"You, you can't just do that. He used to do stuff like that and it did my head in," He was rubbing at his eyes with two fingers as he spoke.

"I don't see why you're upset," I said, this was getting rather tedious.

"That's exactly what he would say," John was shaking his head as he turned to leave.

"John I-" but he cut me off with one raised hand.

Fine. He could be like that. Idiot anyway. It's not like I was trying to take blood! I stormed over to the sofa and threw myself down before turning away from the room and pulling my knees up to my chest.

_John POV_:

I dragged myself up to my room and shut the door. Maybe it was a genetic defect, that all Holmes' were arses that had no concept of personal space and boundaries. I'd been asleep for god's sake! I leaned forward and rubbed my hands over my face.

I didn't think anything like this would happen. That I'd come home to find a little Sherlock dancing around my living room, and then to have her be so like him- it... It was a lot to take in.

I've still not really gotten over what had happened, but I knew that he'd explain it to me. He may be- not with us, but there has to be something that he left me to tell me why he did it, and I think that maybe Rebecca might know or be able to offer some sort of comfort. I'd seen her for twenty minutes and she'd gotten rid of my limp and had me bloody crying. She had a strange effect on the flat- everything felt calmer, but charged as if something huge was about to happen at the same time.

I shook my head and stood up. Sherlock never understood why doing experiments like that were wrong and so getting angry with him was pointless because he didn't know where the upset came from. We'd argue, he'd curl up on the sofa and I'd leave. That's how it was. Then I'd come back and apologise because I couldn't stay pissed off at him. I couldn't stay pissed off at Rebecca for the same reasons.

I looked around the door of the living room and saw her. She was on the sofa, knees pulled up, and facing the wall. I took in a deep breath, it was like having Sherlock back, she was almost exactly the same. The same other than the fact that she was tiny- I thought she might have the same views as Sherlock did about food because her bones were visible- and she had this beautiful little face with the same angry, cold guard as her cousin that made you want to protect her, despite the fact that she probably didn't need protecting at all.

"Rebecca," I tried to use a soft voice and reached out a hand to her waist.

"what?" she growled, still curled up in the corner of the sofa.

"Look, I'm sorry for getting angry," she turned to look at me, hazel eyes scanning over my face. Deducing me no doubt.

"Okay," she nodded and sat up.

"Tea?" I asked.

"Please, I'm trying to lower my caffeine intake," she shrugged and wandered over to the window, picking up the violin as she went. Before I could protest again she started playing the same piece he alway did late at night. She swayed with the music and I just made it to the kitchen before I started crying again.

She stopped after the piece finished and I heard the living room window open and the sounds of London rush in. I made her tea the same way that Sh-_Sherlock _used to take his- sweet and milky- he was a man of extremes and liked his tea almost sickly.

I picked up her mug and my own and wandered into the living room. She had lit one of the lamps and was sitting on the window ledge with her feet dangling out, her back to me.

As I walked closer I could smell something. Cigarettes. She'd sneaked in cigarettes. I smiled just because I could. Because I'd missed this sort of behavior, and having to put up with it.

"Give me them," I said, holding out a hand.

She didn't turn around, "give you what?" she asked.

"The cigarettes. You use patches, then you quit, thats the deal in this house." Her back straightened a bit and he saw her throw something away.

"I'm not smoking, John" she said as she swung her legs back over the ledge.

"I saw you," I said handing her a mug and taking a seat.

"No you didn't. You must go get your eyes checked John," she said dismissively as she looked at her tea before taking a sip. I couldn't help the fit of giggles that erupted. Rebecca Holmes: three year old cousin of the worlds only consulting five year old.

"What?" she asked, her eyebrows were drawn together as she tried to deduce why I was laughing.

"I'm just glad to have some company again," I laughed. Her face spread into a genuine, angelic smile.

"Me too," she said.


	9. Chapter 8

The end is near dear readers! I can't believe how many views this has gotten, I'm so glad that you've carried on reading. I've written the ending and I think i'll be wrapping things up in about two chapters (they're gonna be long so I apologise now).

Anyway, lets carry on. Reviews are welcome, so please tell me what you think.

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_Two months later, Rebecca POV_:

"JOHN!" I shouted from the sofa. My laptop was dying and I couldn't reach the charger from my position. I heard footsteps upstairs but there was no reply.

"JOHN! JOHN, I BURNT MYSELF AGAIN!" I lied, but he hated it when I hurt myself, and especially hated chemical burns, because apparently I had too many scars for an eighteen year old according to the good doctor. The heavy footsteps moved from the centre of the upstairs room out and down the twenty three steps to the living room. He burst into the door, his face still half covered in shaving foam.

"Rebecca are you alright? Where have you bur-," he stopped his panic when he saw me on the sofa, very much un-burnt.

"I thought you had burnt yourself?" he asked as his eyebrows pulled together in his 'saying-you're-injured-to-get-my-attention-isn't-funny- look'.

"Pass me the charger would you?" I motioned over to the cable that was lying at the side of the coffee table.

"Pass you the charge that isn't more than two meters from you? That charger?" I looked up at him: _nostrils flaring, heart rate increasing, redness around back of neck. _He was angry. I smirked before I could hold it in.

"Yes, John," I smoothed my face into it's usual blank mask," that charger."

He took three deep breaths with his eyes closed, his head tilted away from me slightly like he usually does when he's annoyed. He didn't say anything as he walked to the cable and attached it to the side of the computer I was balancing on my leg.

"Thank you," I looked up at him and flashed the smile that always made him melt a little. Sure enough, he smiled back and shook his head.

"You Miss. Holmes, are a bloody nightmare," he leaned down and placed a small kiss on my forehead leaving some shaving foam behind.

He did that a lot nowadays, kissed my head. Hugs too. I was beginning to think that John wasn't really human, that he was just a teddy bear in a human suit that stole cuddles whenever he could.

Sherlock kissed my head a lot too actually. Interesting.

I wondered if they were this affectionate with each other before.

John's vice broke my train of thought.

"I'm going to the shop when I'm done, do you want anything?" he asked.

John had developed this strange obsession with making me eat since the third day of my being in 221B. I'd been given tea, toast, eggs, bacon and fruit that morning and only drank the tea which resulted in an angry lecture from the Doctor about the importance of eating regularly. Then he went and got his scales out and weighed me, I'd lost weight after the attack and didn't ever feel hungry enough to eat enough to gain it back. Seven stone, the scales read, which sent John into a hissy fit. I had gained a bit of weight since then, but still not enough to shut him up.

My love of peanut butter on brown bread had quickly been discovered, and I could bet there was a full tub of peanut butter and a fresh loaf of brown bread in the flat at any moment.

"No I'm fine," I said, pulling my headphones from my dressing gown pocket and plugging them in. He nodded and vanished back upstairs, only to reemerge ten minutes later fully dressed and shaven.

"See you in a bit then," John smiled and waved and he bounced down the stairs and out into the autumn air.

He'd been doing incredibly well over these few weeks. He had started to ask about my deductions while we were out, and I now took it upon myself to explain them to him in the hopes that he would continue to pick up the skill. He was getting slightly better at them.

His mood had changed too. He was always happy. _Always. _He would wander into the kitchen in the morning wrapped in that horrendous striped dressing gown and chirp a "good morning" while kissing the back of my head if I were at the microscope, or putting an arm around me if I were making tea. He was like a big brother to me, I suppose.

I put my headphones in and started some Mumford and Sons while I waited for my email to open. One new message flashed up:

From: Sherlock Holmes

Hello Rebecca,

I read your last message. I agree that John has made a huge amount of progress, I've been watching you both- Mycroft has cameras in the kitchen and living room that are active. He seems well, is he? The cameras don't have sound, but his face doesn't have the same sadness about it anymore. It would seem that your presence has the same effect on him as it does to Mycroft and I. He's also very affectionate with you, more so than I ever saw him be with his girlfriends, but in a very protective way, I highly doubt that you haven't noticed this though. But, I'm just stalling by writing all of this. The real question- when can I come home?

SH.

Reply:

Sher, I found those cameras straight away and moved them so that you could have a better view, you don't need to tell me that they're there.

I view John in the same way that I view you both and so the affection doesn't bother me, though I'm still not very good at returning it. That is one of the good things about John though isn't it? That he gives but doesn't expect anything in return.

Sher, you don't need to ask that. By the sounds of that last email, you've already booked your train ticket.

RH

From: Sherlock Holmes

Correct, I arrive in two weeks.

SH

Reply:

We'll be waiting with arms open.

RH

I deleted the messages and closed the computer. Sherlock was coming home. John was going to go mental. I smiled at the scenes of complete anarchy that played in my head as I imagines Sherlock's return. No doubt John would hit him, probably quite a lot, but not very hard.

Hopefully, he'd kiss him. The affection that he was showing me was genuine, but he also viewed it as expressing love for Sherlock indirectly because I look like him. John would need to initiate things though, no way would Sherlock lean in first.

Kissing was strange. Very, very enjoyable, but strange at the same time. I mean, thats someones mouth on your mouth, but you want it there.

Human interaction was strange. Human interaction was confusing. Like Sherlock usually said, "not really my area". There was one person, that we both seemed to make an exception for though and he'd just walked in the door with a fresh tub of peanut butter and a box of cakes from the Hummingbird Bakery. He knew I had a weakness for their red velvet cupcakes.

"Yes, I got you two of them," John put down the shopping bags and handed me the box. I took out one of my own, and one of the vanilla ones that John always bought himself. A few minutes later a mug of fresh tea was set down on the coffee table in front of me. I muttered a thanks and took a sip at the same time John took a bite out of his cake and let out a hum of satisfaction.

"I was thinking earlier," he wiped a few stray crumbs off of his face, but missed a small smudge of buttercream. I pointed out where it was on my own face, John nodded and wiped his face again before continuing.

"I was thinking we should get a dog".

"A real life dog?" I asked, slightly shocked at John's announcement.

"Yeah, theres a lady just down the road that has bulldog puppies and she's desperate to get rid of 'em and i've always wanted one"

I nodded and tented my fingers against my lips, "yes, a dog would be nice any ideas for a name?"

"How about Gladstone?"

I laughed a little and took a bite of my cake.

"Gladstone Watson-Holmes, I like it."


	10. Chapter 9

Penultimate chapter! Little explanation of a few things first:

-The song that Rebecca was dancing to was "what i know"- Parachute, it's my ultimate dancing around my room song. Go listen. - I've always had this thing for Gladstone- it's domestic and sweet and perfect, so I decided to bring him in. - The Hummingbird Bakery is a real place in London, and one of my favourite places to visit while there. They have a recipe book if you're interested.

Now, read, review and enjoy!

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Four days later:

"What?" I giggled at him, as he practically danced into the living room. His mouth was stretched out and looked too wide for his face he was smiling so much. My eyes began to scan over him before I even had to think about it:_ small mud flecks on bottom of trousers- walked through a garden, obvious by small piece of grass- hair slightly damp- walked in rain then tube train- jubilee line four stops- small hairs stuck to coat sleeve- British bulldog, four of them, two adults two puppies- and that idiotic grin._

"Stop deducing and come and say hello," John toed off his shoes and padded across to his chair by the fire, while fidgeting with something inside his coat. I stood up and ran over to Sherlock's chair before sitting and pulling my knees up, watching as John pulled back his coat.

"Gladstone, welcome to 221B" John cradled the small bundle in his arms, a soft smile still pulling at his feature. I edged closer and looked at the tiny bulldog puppy that was sitting on John's lap sniffing at the air. It turned and started licking John's face, it's tail was wagging so hard I thought it'd fall off.

"Hey," He was laughing, "c'mon Gladstone, stop it. Go see auntie Rebecca," He picked up the puppy and placed him in my lap. Within seconds I was grinning ear to ear and being licked to death by a tiny little monster.

He fell asleep not twenty minutes later curled up in front of the fire while John and I had tea.

"Auntie Rebecca?" I asked. John looked up and laughed.

"Well, I'm his dad and I think of you as my little sister therefore you are his auntie," I shook my head and laughed along side him- John Watson didn't have a bad bone in his body.

We'd managed to patch each other up pretty well. I satisfied his need for minor explosions in the kitchen and deductions twenty four seven, while he was soft and warm and caring, just like I needed. Now we had Gladstone too, a little ball of hyperactive happiness to love. We both knew the other was thinking it, but we didn't say anything.

We were both thinking about how this picture was so close to being complete that it hurt.

The difference between us was the fact that I knew that, come Friday night, it would be.

John would be getting Sherlock back soon. I smiled into my tea and peered at John over the rim of the mug as he smiled down at Gladstone.

John Watson was going to be happy again,and that in itself made me happy. Very happy indeed.

This happiness was interrupted when my mind decided to bring to my attention the fact that I would like someone else to be there too. I felt my face twist into a grimace as a strange pain shot through my chest. I'd rather get stabbed again than feel that pain. I stood up and began looking for my coat. I needed a cigarette, and I needed it _now._ I could feel that all too familiar darkness pulling at my resolve, telling me that 'he left because of you' and that alcohol and slightly stronger substances were needed.

'Danger nights' Mycroft had called them once, I suppose that it was an appropriate name, but Mycroft had never had one so he didn't know the half of it. Sherlock did though, but he wasn't here, and I really, _really_ needed him to be because the dark was spreading like a poison.

I could feel John's eyes follow me as I reached for my coat and rummaged through the pockets for a moment before finding a full pack and a lighter.

"Rebecca," John's voice was hard, but I could here the worry in it, of course I could, I could hear and see everything. And I could deduce everything. I could deduce the reasons that people did things. So, I knew exactly why he left and I knew exactly who was at fault: me. I didn't know the details, I just knew that he left because I was too much work and because I didn't really try and stop him. These thoughts continued to race through my mind, tearing away at any light that was there and replacing it with that horrible cold darkness that made me numb.

I lit a cigarette as I paced across the living room muttering things under my breath. I'd never had a danger night with John before and I wasn't quite sure how he would take it seeing as mine had always been significantly worse than Sherlocks- and his were bad.

John stood up and walked over to me, placing his hands on my shoulders and looking me in the eye.

"No," he said simply. His face was unmoving as were his eyes. They were totally locked with mine, unwilling to give in or back down.

"Get out of my way John," I growled pushing past him and storming through to the kitchen. I grabbed a bottle from the cupboard- _Disaronno_, _that would do nicely_- and poured some into a glass. I swallowed half of it, tasting the sweetness of the golden liquid on my tounge, dulling the world as it seeped into my blood. I finished the drink and poured another, more this time. John had had just about enough by that point. He grabbed the bottle and poured it down the sink, then he pulled the cigarette from my mouth and stamped it out. His nostrils were flared and he was breathing heavily.

"I will not have you do that in this house do you hear? He did that once and I swore it would never happen again. So what's brought it on hmm?" John was trying to keep his voice down but his face gave everything away, did he really think that he could hide his true feelings from a Holmes?

I laughed bitterly and went into the living room and retrieved my cigarettes. John stood in my way again.

"I said no," he pulled the pack away and put them in his back pocket.

"Give. Me. Them."

"You are not leaving this flat so sit down before you wake Gladstone," he pointed over to my chair- well Sherlock's chair- and then to the tiny sleeping puppy. Looking at the dog just started my brains tormenting again.

"John give me the cigarettes," I had closed my eyes, everything was just too stimulating and too bright. It all needed to be dulled, to be distanced- alcohol and cigarettes were very good at doing that.

"Is it about him?"John asked suddenly, his voice quiet and hushed. My eyes were watering- bloody body betraying me as always- and my hands were clenching and opening.

"Yes," I answered, "so please just give me back my cigarettes and let me deal with it."

"Come with me," He said, holding out a hand behind him as he headed for his bedroom.

I don't know why, but I took it. I took it partly because John had shown me that he was worth opening up for, and then partly because I was terrified of what I might do this time- it was a bad one, I could feel it.

We arrived at the door to John's bedroom. He opened it to reveal a very tidy, minimalistic room with a green duvet on the bed. There weren't many photos or decorations, obviously his army conditioning hadn't worn off yet, but there was one photo in a frame on the bedside table. He pulled me over to the bed and sat me down. My legs bounced. He picked up the photo and handed it to me. It was of him and Sherlock- they were laughing together at what looked like a christmas party in an office, probably in NSY. I reached a shaking hand out and traced Sherlock's face, It'd been months since I saw him smile like that.

"That was last year at the Yard's christmas do," John whispered, "He was deducing everyone- it was hilarious," There was a soft, sad smile on John's face as he spoke.

"I always like to think about that day because it was the last time I saw him totally happy. He'd had one of his bad nights three days before, bloody mess he was in, but afterwards he seemed better," he shrugged slightly and looked up at me.

"He never ever told me why he had them, just told me not to let him leave the flat if I ever found him pacing in the living room muttering. A few minutes ago you were pacing and muttering," He looked at me with those big soft eyes that were always so full of trust, waiting for me to tell him how to help, how to stop bad things from happening to me.

"My brain never stops, John," I sighed, "Its a constant steam of deductions and thoughts and memories that can be set of by the smallest of things. Tonight, I wished that my friend was here because then everything would be perfect, and my brain started throwing up memories and thoughts." I had started to talk very quickly, but I was starting to feel a weight lift and the darkness fade slightly.

"He just left one day and I don't know why, but I knew that there must be some sort of reason and that he had decided that leaving was best for him and so I let him go. My brain doesn't like to ignore him and so it's been going over every single detail of him since I first thought of it while we were downstairs."

"Tell me about him," John said, reaching over and taking one of my hands in his. He traced over the long scar on the back of my hand that reached from my wrist to my fingers.

"He was 5'8.3, he had light blonde hair that he liked cut short- kind of like yours-, he had the nicest blue eyes, but his pupils were always really big so you didn't see them very often, only in the mornings or late at night." A smile pulled at my mouth as I thought of him, I could see him as clearly as if he were standing in front of me.

"He liked obscure films and apple computers. He always smelled clean and he'd go in the huff if you ever pointed out that he'd forgotten to shave that morning. He just made everything bright," I reached up my free hand to wipe at my eyes. John let out a breath and began rubbing small circles in my hand.

"So was he...a boyfriend?" He asked, avoiding my gaze for the first time. I shook my head.

"No, we both like men," I laughed, "the term people tend to use is 'platonic soul-mates' someone who is your perfect match but in a best-friend kinda way. He used to say that he was 'the mary-kate to my ashley'," I laughed at the memory before the laughs turned into sobs and I was crying my eyes out. John, ever loyal John, pulled me into his arms and started whispering reassurances into my ear. He was wearing the big cream jumper that smelled like tea and warm and John.

"I can see why you do the things you do," he said after what felt like an eternity.

"After your cousin...left, I was in a pretty bad place for a long time. A few nights I had to be carried up here by Mycroft and Lestrade. I didn't know they were friends until then," I laughed, they were much more than friends, but apparently John hadn't noticed, not surprising really.

We sat like that for a very long time: me curled up against John's side, face nuzzled into the jumper while he held on to me, placing small kisses on my hair. John Watson was like a father, a brother, a best friend, everything all in one little jumper clad body. I hadn't really understood it when Sherlock had once said that "John is everything", but I got it now. I understood completely. John Watson was everything that mattered and everything that was permanent.

I'll always remember that night because it was that night that I took the photo from my bedside table and put it in the bin. It was the night that I finally accepted that he was gone, and that holding onto every detail did not change that fact.

It was the night when I finally opened up and trusted someone with a part of me that I usually ignored. The darkness that had captured my brain was gone and had been replaced by a light that smelled like tea and jumpers. It was replaced by John and he willingly fought to keep it that way.


	11. Chapter 10

Well, loyal readers, we have reached the end. I've really enjoyed writing this, and I'd love to know what you all thought of the story in general so review and mail me!

So, here we go, an angst filled fluffy coated reunion.

Enjoy, and thank you for reading.

* * *

That all happened on Tuesday night, three days before Sherlock was due back. I didn't really have much time to think about it, about how John was going to react, and luckily enough nothing needed to be organised because Sherlock wanted his old life back just as it had been. Gladstone was a wonderful addition to Baker Street, running around and eating John's shoelaces, wrestling with him while trying to cover his dad in kisses. John seemed even happier with him in the flat and Gladstone was entirely in love with both of us. He had commandeered the spot in-between the two armchairs, but also had a fondness for falling asleep on top of either me or John.

"What's he like?" John laughed as he looked down at the snoring puppy that was cuddled up on his chest. I looked up from my book and smiled at him.

"He loves his dad," I smirked.

"And his dad loves him," John reached up an arm and held Gladstone closer.

"You are without a doubt the most cuddly human being I've ever met," I said, reaching for my bookmark and putting it in the page.

"Everybody likes a cuddle," John said, "I just happen to be more partial to them than most."

I laughed and made my way into the kitchen, "tea?" I shouted.

"Yeah," he replied. Two mugs- I bought a new one and threw my other one out along with the photo- one with two sugars, one with one and a half.

I handed John his mug and picked up Gladstone with my now free hand. I sat down on my/Sherlock's chair and took a sip of tea while the puppy nuzzled into my neck and started snoring again.

It was Friday afternoon. I had a few hours before this chair would no longer be mine, it'd be Sherlock's again. I started to smooth Gladstone's fur while I thought about what the great Sherlock Holmes would look like with a tiny little puppy sleeping on his chest.

"What're you smiling at?" John said taking a sip of his tea. I decided that John should probably get used to the idea of Sherlock being here again and so I told him exactly what I was smiling at.

"I was just thinking about how funny Sher would look with Gladstone sleeping on him. He'd probably fit into Sherlock's hand." I heard John pull in deep breath, but the smile remained on his face.

"I know, big lanky git would make Gladstone look even smaller than he already is," he laughed a bit and picked up my empty cup. I put an arm up and held the puppy to my neck as I stood up and walked over to the sofa. There was an armchair at the side of it, I wondered if I could move it over beside the others. I pulled at the arm and a loud scraping noise came from the feet of it.

"The bloody hell was that?" John came running into the living room just as Gladstone let out what was meant to be a bark, but was more like a little squeak. I laughed and picked the puppy up to look at him.

"What're we shouting about Glad?" I faked a pout at the puppy, who started to wag his tail and try to lick my nose.

"I want to move this chair over beside the others," I put Gladstone down and he started to chew on one of his toys.

"Why? You usually sit in the black one," his eyebrows were drawn together confused. I shrugged, "I just want that one for a change."

After an hour of bickering, John agreed to help me move the chair. It now sat in the middle of John and Sherlock's chairs, the old blanket I gave John that first night draped over the back of it.

John had gone to get some milk from the shop and Gladstone and I had just come back from our afternoon walk. I took his lead off and hung my coat on the back of the cupboard door. Only a few hours left, I was getting more excited with every minute.

"Gladstone," I shouted and the little monster came running from the kitchen- he'd been here less that a week and he already knew his name- trust John to pick a dog with Sherlock's brain. I sat on my chair and patted my lap, he jumped up and sat down, tail wagging, tongue hanging out.

"Okay, later tonight your other dad is coming home. He's really big, but he's a big softy really," the puppy barked once in reply and I scratched behind his ears.

"I bet you'll love him," I kissed his tiny head and opened my book.

It was five minutes to ten. Five minutes. Agh.

John was sitting in his chair with a beer, Gladstone seated on his lap chewing at a little moose toy I'd bought him. Mrs. Hudson was aware of what was happening and had come up ten minutes ago, partly because she was as excited as I was to see Sherlock, but also for moral support.

Mycroft, Sherlock and I had agreed that I would tell John and then bring Sherlock in rather than having Sherlock run in and scare the life out of the poor doctor. I was fidgeting in my chair, twirling my phone between my fingers waiting for the text to say he was outside.

Two minutes to ten. Two. Agh.

Mrs. Hudson gave me a sly nod and excused herself downstairs to "check her washing", really she was going to open the door and greet 'her boy'. It had been two and a half years since she'd seen him.

One minute to ten.

My phone beeped: Outside- SH.

I stood and took in one breath before walking over and crouching down in front of John. I picked up the puppy and placed him on my chair with his toy.

"Rebecca, what're you doing?", John asked as I removed the beer from his hand- best not let him have glass or things to throw when he comes in. I took his hands in mine and raised them to my lips. My eyes locked with his and I let out the breath I'd been holding.

I was terrified that John would hate me.

I was excited that Sherlock was coming back.

I was terrified that I'd lose John. That we both would.

"John," I said against his hands. His eyebrows were furrowed and he was looking at me with the same eyes of concern and caring that he did that night.

"He's alive, John," I said, my eyes never leaving his. He processed the words for a moment before his eyes started to water and his mouth set itself in a hard line, holding back sobs no doubt.

He didn't say anything he just shook his head and tried so, so hard to hold in tears. I pressed another kiss to his hands and let him have a minute.

"You don't lie," he said to me, "you never have. At least not to me, so just- just stop this" he had closed his eyes and dropped his head. It was hurting me to see him like this and I could feel my eyes sting.

"I don't lie to you John. He's downstairs waiting for me to tell him to come u-"

"No," he cut me off. "No he's not. He's dead so stop it."

"John, he i-"

"NO HE'S NOT!" John exploded, pushing me away as he stood and started to pace across the living room. Gladstone whined and hid himself behind the cushions.

"I've been doing well," John said through clenched teeth, "I've been doing really well, and I've tried to move on and I thought you were helping. You are helping. But th-this, this is just evil. He's dead so just stop," he had stopped pacing and was standing in the middle of the room staring at me. I straightened and slowly walked over to him.

"When have I ever lied to you John?" He shook his head in reply.

"Exactly, I'm not lying John. He's home," I whispered as I reached out and wiped away the tears that were falling down his face. Mrs. Hudson appeared behind him at the door- she'd been crying too, but she was smiling, glowing with happiness and relief. I nodded to her and heard a familiar tread make it's way up the stairs.

A tall, thin figure appeared behind Mrs. Hudson and kissed the top of her head before stepping into the light of the living room. I looked at John, smiled and nodded before running over to him.

"Sherlock," I said into his neck as I jumped into his arms and hugged him tight enough to suffocate him.

He laughed, that beautiful deep sounds, and spun around in a circle. He put me down and kissed my cheek, "Hello Rebecca," he smiled. I gave him a once over- he was wearing his beloved coat and scarf, a new suit and shoes too. He was trying hard to hide it, but I could see the water around his eyes and the way that his lips shook with effort. I took his hand and pulled him over to where John was standing, his back still to us.

As soon as Sherlock saw the side of John's face, and the pain that it held he let go of my hand and rushed over, reaching out a hand to touch that face, the face that he'd thought of every single day he'd been gone, but stopped and pulled back.

"John," he whispered, his voice shook badly and broke half way through the name.

John shook his head and pulled his hands over his face muttering "no" over and over.

"John, John I'm home," Sherlock smiled a little and reached out a hand to gently tug at John's wrists. I knew how badly he wanted to just see John. He didn't need touch or conversation, just being in the same room as him would be enough I bet.

I picked up Gladstone from behind the pillows and leaned against the arm of John's chair. Slowly, John opened his eyes and met the grey-blue of Sherlock's. I don't think I'll ever see Sher look that relieved and happy and glowing in the same way ever again. He was looking at John like he was the only thing worth looking at. He was looking at John like he was everything good in the world. John stared at him blankly for a moment before his nostrils flared and he hit Sherlock, not hard at all, but still.

"You absolute arse," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. He tackled Sherlock and he landed with a thud onto the floor. John pinned him down and continued to land punches- pathetically soft ones- on any part of Sherlock that he could get at. To his credit, Sherlock just lay there and let John get all of the anger out of his system. John gradually slowed and then stopped to wipe at his eyes. Sherlock looked up at him, the most pained expression on his face and caught John's wrists again.

It was right about then that John Watson crumbled into the arms of Sherlock Holmes.

He heaved a sob and fell forward just as Sherlock sat up and caught him. It turned into one of those moments that just exist frozen in time for what seems like an eternity. Sherlock held onto John, held so tightly to hold him together, and John held into Sherlock so that he could never slip away again.

Mrs. Hudson was crying.

John and Sherlock were crying.

I was crying.

Even Gladstone whined.

I didn't stay just so that I could watch the reunion. I stayed because it felt like moving would ruin the moment, and because I was pretty sure I'd forgotten how to use my legs. So instead I looked over at the picture of pained beauty that was the moment. Sherlock pulled back slightly and whispered John's name and started to apologise, but John cut him off with a gentle press of his lips to Sherlock's. He leaned back, sniffed and smiled at the man who was very much alive in his hands.

"I know. It's all fine," he said, cupping Sherlock's face in his hands and pulling him in for another hug, one that Sherlock returned.

I held Gladstone close and looked over at Mrs. Hudson who was smiling so much I thought her face would break, clutching her hanky to her chest, not even trying to hide the sobs that wracked her body. I wiped at my face and smiled down at the pair who were now just looking at each other, taking in every detail and every smile.

The night progressed from happy tears to warm laughter that reached to every corner of my mind. Sherlock and John sat together on the couch, shoulders and thighs touching, hands joined together, anchoring each other to that exact spot. Gladstone ran over to his other dad, "big dad" we had decided was appropriate- Sher had thrown a pillow at me for that one- and wasn't shy in showing that he loved him. He'd tired himself out in ten minutes and was curled up on Sherlock's chest, snoring.

Mrs. Hudson went downstairs just after midnight kissing both of 'her boys' and 'her girl' before saying goodnight. I picked up the empty cups and put them in the sink. Gladstone had wandered in after me and was pawing my ankle.

"Want to sleep in my bed tonight?", I asked him, scratching his ears. A lick to the face, I'm guessing, is a yes.

There were whispers and deep happy laughs coming from the living room. At least now they wouldn't be trying to keep up the whole "just hetero friends" thing. How anyone believed them, I'd never know, but people were stupid.

I walked in and cleared my throat, making them break the intense stare they had going on.

"Gladstone is going to sleep in my bed tonight," I announced, "I'm guessing that John's room is now 'our room'?" I raised an eyebrow and smiled at them.

"Yes, it is. Goodnight, love," John's smile could have lit London for a month. Sherlock looked over at me, he didn't need to say anything, I knew what he was thinking. I nodded and kissed their cheeks before tucking Gladstone's moose under my arm and walking down the corridor to my room.

Sherlock was home.

Sherlock was John's to keep.

Mrs. Hudson had her little make-shift family back together.

Me- well I had everything. I had them all and they all had me.

221B was full of light that night, all of the darkness, of hurt, and loss and loneliness gone as quickly as it had come. The world can often seem a very bad place at night, but not tonight.

Some nights it's beautiful.

Some nights... some nights we always win- tonight was one of them.

* * *

So, once again thank you for reading, I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have (despite this writing causing me emotional damage).

I have other stories up, and I will no doubt start another longer piece soon.

Would you guys want me to keep Rebecca or not? let me know!


	12. Update on sequel and some questions

**Sequel "Those Nights" is up now!**

**It can be found on my main page. As always, read, review and enjoy!**

* * *

Hello there!

So, first off sorry for making you think that i'd updated again. Secondly, and the reason i'm writing this, is to say that i am writing a sequel to "Some Nights"and it's going to be a linear story, much like this one.

So, it's going to be alternating between Rebecca's and third person POV to give you a more complete viewing of situations.

If you have any ideas, or suggestions please don't hesitate to mail me and let me know.

Love Always,

Rebecca.


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